


The Emperor’s New Clothes

by lciel



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clothes, Coup d'état, Crossdressing, F/M, Gaunter twisting deals, Gender Play, Gender or Sex Swap, Geralt has a type, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Secrets, Spanking, Toussaint (The Witcher), Unplanned Pregnancy, bossy and dark-haired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: The vintner Geralt, Lord of Corvo Bianco, has retired, thank you very much, not taking contracts. The Emperor of Nilfgaard is on the run from revolutionary forces that have captured the Empire. A fiend was really just doing whatever a fiend does, when their lives get intertwined, and the most improbable happens. When chaos breaks loose, of course, Gaunter O'Dim can't be far.A Tale of Fear, Fate, and Absurdity, new lives and lies, LOVE, a vintner, a maid, and the miracle of life, set in Toussaint.





	1. The Vintner

„I’m not in the business anymore,” was the first thing the vintner told the knight, when he began to open is mouth. He was the third in a week to approach him in the vineyard, where he was tending to the vines among his servants. The knight fidgeted, but when no further reaction was forthcoming, he eventually trotted away. Just when the vintner thought he could return to his work in peace and quiet, another heavily armed man and horse approached to throw a shadow over his crouched form.

“I said I’m-”, he began without looking up.

“Too busy to greet an old friend?”

At that, Geralt did look up, into the jubilant face of Palmerin de Launfal, enshrined in his glimmering golden helmet.

“The Baron de Launfal,” Geralt grinned back in surprise. With a long-suffering sigh, he straightened his stiff knees and back, dropped the last grapes into a barrel, and wiped his hands on his purple-stained shirt. Once Palmerin had gotten off his horse, they embraced in friendship. A boy took the horse to put it in the stable beside Roach.

“How has life been treating you?” Geralt asked, as he led his unexpected guest towards the house. The estate was extremely busy with the harvest, and his servants and additional hired workers were bustling about under the watchful eye of the major domo. A large tent had been pitched over the main courtyard to give everybody some shade in the blistering days of Lammas. His old armour repair table had been given a new purpose to hold cups and jugs, so that everyone drank enough in the heat. Geralt poured his guest a cup of fresh, cool water from the well, and a goblet of wine the other accepted in thanks.

“What duty requires full armour on such a day?” the vintner commented curiously, leaning against the stable wall as the knight set down his helmet and wiped his brow..

“The day _is_ remarkably hot for the time of the year,” Palmerin admitted, “but the duchess’ business must be attended to in the attire befitting her knights.”

Geralt frowned: “So this is not just a friendly visit?”

“I’m very much afraid not,” Palmerin had the grace to blush, “though a visit for the pleasure of seeing you was overdue, my friend.”

Then, to the vintner’s slowly rising dread, the knight returned to his horse and drew a lavish scroll from his saddle-bags: “In the name of Her Grace, Anna-Henrietta, the Duchess of Toussaint, we hereby call upon the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, citizen of Beauclair, to come to the palace at once to assist the Ducal Guard in the dealings with a monstrous creature spotted in the wilderness beyond the palace gardens. He shall present himself promptly, so that the creature may be dealt with before the harvest celebrations commence.”

The vintner sighed. When he had decided to hang his swords on the wall, a few month after that profound conversation with Regis, he had thought the world would slowly forget about him, as it seemed to forget everything else that occurred day after day. But every time a nekker turned up to uproot the roses of a neighbour’s garden, the people of Toussaint had called reliably upon their resident witcher. In the end, he had decided to draw the line between his old and new life more firmly, and gone back to the underground laboratory of Professor Moreau. He had gone alone, which turned out to be a mistake that had almost cost him his life. The potions to reverse the witcher mutations were prepared easily enough, but the moment he had put himself into the apparatus, things had started to go wrong. Or rather, things went exactly to plan. Geralt had simply underestimated what it meant to be left human at the end of the process: A normal human, who had just lived through an incredibly exhausting and dangerous transformation. He owed his life to Barnabas-Basil, his loyal major domo, who had found Roach and his heavier clothes at the lakeside, and Captain de la Tour, whose men – at once alerted - had eventually found the underwater entrance and his unconscious body.

Geralt did not remember anything between turning on the apparatus, and waking up in his bed – almost a week later – to the worried faces of Barnabas-Basil and Marlene. He had felt weak, horribly weak, and he had wept with the slow realisation of his human weakness. It had taken his neighbours, including the duchess, a while to remember that the witcher was gone, and only the gruff, blue-eyed vintner remained. His body had changed; the muscles had wilted. He was still a strong man, a fast man, and a decent fighter. Even a trickle of magic still came to him, perhaps through his mother’s gift. But he was not left as a young man either, going by the greying dark blond that had slowly replaced his white hair. In a friendly duel with Captain de la Tour, he struggled to hold himself, and after an exhausting half hour, they called it a draw. The duel helped to reshape the expectations the duchess set to him, and when the occasional monster bothered the ducal guard, he was now called in to consult, rather than to slay single-handedly. He was still paid more he had ever received on the path, without the need to risk his life. Not given much of a choice in the first place, the vintner had grudgingly accommodated himself to the arrangement.

“I assume that I should report to the captain right away?” Geralt asked Palmerin, and the latter inclined his head in assent. “Very well, tell her I am on my way.”

Once the knight had left to report to his lady, Geralt informed his major domo and saddled Roach. The aged black stallion gave him a gentle shove with the head in greeting. After spoiling him with a bunch of carrots, the vintner led the horse outside, and climbed into the saddle the moment they reached the street. Then the two old boys took off in a lazy trot towards the ducal palace.

~*~

“Geralt,” Damien greeted him at the guard’s barracks. The captain of the guard looked well, tanned by the summer sun. His face had healed well after the night of the long fangs, but scarred terribly. Over a few glasses of vine the captain had confided in him that the ladies of the court found the scars to be a sign of great courage and manliness. Geralt was tempted to introduce him to Eskel.

“Captain de la Tour, a pleasure,” he returned the greeting, “I heard you have something urgent for me?”

Damien lifted his shoulders with a huff: “If the duchess says it’s urgent, it is. But this time I agree. Follow me, I’ll take you to where we have found the tracks.”

They mounted the horses and rode well beyond the palace gardens, into the woods near the western shore of the lake. By a little shed near the beach, they stopped. It look longer these days for Geralt to discover tracks, but with diligence and patience, he found them alright.

“A young man reported the incident. He had come here at night to meet a secret lover. The lover did not turn up.” Damien informed him in the meantime. “But our informant swears he saw a beast with grisly spikes, a large maw, and glowing eyes. Whatever it is, the monster dragged away his lover. We found the corpse in the woods, about a quarter mile from here, mangled by a pack of wolves. I was ready to dismiss the case as a tragic but common accident, but in the last few days similar tales were reported from the area: they all recount the same – a large monster with glowing eyes. At least there are no further dead to be mourned.”

Geralt nodded absentmindedly, examining the footprints outside the shed. There were some of animals, but nothing larger than deer. Some human footprints were left as well, but so faded the vintner could not discern much from them. The led to the shed, therefore he pushed open the rickety door. The inside was a three by two yard space, empty but for a few old sacks and half-rotten leaves that had blown in from a hole in the roof. The floor was earthen and slightly moist, and had preserved the traces much better. Geralt found one pair of boot prints that had stopped short in the doorway, and then turned away abruptly. Those must belong to the man who had reported the incident. Much more interesting was the second set of imprints. By the looks of it, somebody had waited in the shed, but left eventually. But something startled the vintner. With long fingers, he picked up some of the leaves and found a letter beneath. I only said: ‘Dear P, I have to leave. Next week, same time. Yours, V’

“Can you describe the victim’s body to me?” he asked Damien, pushing himself up and walking to the lake shore to clean his hands.

“Well, the first one was found a few yards into the woods from here, so torn apart that we took a moment to identify it as human. Only the bones were left – and not even all of them. As for the others, they were torn apart and crushed, but not as … eaten,” he finished off into a dark silence.

“Something powerful then,” Geralt said with a sense of foreboding, “which way?”

Damien pointed straight into the woods, away from the shore. The vintner walked carefully, but once he had made it to a certain point in the shrubbery, the trail was hard to miss, even for the human eye. Grim-faced, he made his way back to Damien.

“It’s a fiend,” he announced, “and a large one at that, going by the paw prints. This is work for a professional, better yet two.”

The captain pondered over this: “Do you think a large unit could take it on?”

Geralt shook his head, then nodded: “In terms of strength, yes, but a fiend can affect the mind, blind the opponent. You can try, but do it at a range. The problem if you injure without kill is that the fiend might become more aggressive. I would wait until you have a professional, and keep people away from the area until then.”

Damien looked uncomfortable: “Her grace…”

 Right, the harvest celebrations. The vintner sighed: “If you follow the trail, take at least thirty men, and bring ranged weapons. It will shy away from loud noises. Trap it, if you can, but beware: it is very strong, and very fast. Don’t forget-“

“The magic, blinds people.”

“-and the last thing they see are glowing eyes.”

They looked at each other unhappily.

“I must report at once,” Damien commented with a huff, and gathered his horse, “It is a pity sometimes that you left your vocation, witcher.”

 The blond shrugged elusively: “I like my peace.”

Once the captain had left his sight, Geralt took another sharp look at the tracks. No, he thought. He was glad he had left the path behind. He whistled sharply, and Roach trotted over to him.

“We are getting old peacefully,” he resolutely told the horse, patting his neck. Roach snorted, and Geralt thought the horse was right. Retirement was good for them. The only thing he missed on occasion was all the time he could have spent with Ciri. He had not seen her much in the last months, mostly because the young witcheress had gone back to travelling the worlds with Avallac’h. She had left after Geralt had told her about his plans to retire from the path. The vintner did not trust the elf, but that was her decision to make; just like settling down had been his, despite her misgivings. He reckoned they both needed some time to accept their mutual disappointment. The same could be said for Yennefer or Triss, and Geralt was rather glad that so far neither sorceress had deigned to set foot on his vineyard. Lambert and Eskel came to winter once in a while, and Dandelion visited occasionally, sometimes with Zoltan tow. His most frequent visitor was Regis, who had returned to the crypt of Mére Lachaiselongue. Apart from his brothers and closest friends, though, Geralt preferred to let bridges burn, to leave the past in the past, and concentrate on the present.

The ride home was uneventful, and by the time Roach was taken care off, the buzz of the vineyard had pulled him back in. After all, it was harvest season. Only when the evening came and the dark put an end to the work, did he sit down at his desk and penned a letter to Keira Metz in Vizima. She would know how to get a hold of Lambert, especially when there was a lucrative contract waiting in Toussaint.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you have probably noticed, this is slightly AU, in that here Prof. Moreau actually discovered a "cure" for the witcher mutations.


	2. The Concubine

The coach rumbled over the road, sped along by six steaming black coldbloods. The driver yelled and whipped the horses, eyes gleaming infernally on the darkened road. A small entourage of riders spread along the front, sides, and back of the carriage, dressed in the black armour of the Impera Brigade. Curiously enough, they flew no banners, and in the dark of the night, they had lit no torches. Inside the coach, the Emperor nibbled at his knuckles, eyes flicking back and forth between the small windows on either side. Aine was sitting across from him, white-faced and exhausted. Her beautiful black hair was stringy and unkempt, her silken dress rumpled from the long journey. He paused in his watchfulness to extend his hand to her, and she shifted seats into his arm. His loyal Aine, the first woman after Pavetta’s death he had fallen in love with, and after two further concubines who had roused his interest, the one he had returned to favour the most. Even in this dark hour, in the middle of nowhere, on the run from men who wanted to see him nothing short of dead, she was by his side.

A bump in the road brought him back to full alertness. After a moment of terror, he was about to breathe again, when a horse cried ahead, and then men started to shout. There was a roar, and suddenly the coach was thrown over onto its side. They tumbled onto the door, and Emhyr took a moment to regain his orientation. Searching for Aine in the dark, he felt her warm body beneath him. He softly called her name, but she did not respond. His fingers found her face and discovered the hot liquid that was running over her forehead.

“Aine…” he whispered with dread, getting up and flipping open the other door. He was just tall enough to peek outside, when he saw something huge, with glowing eyes, rip apart men and horses. A quailing animal was thrown into his direction, and he quickly ducked. The horse landed on the carriage, and crashed into the upper door, dead. The wood cracked, and Emhyr acted fast, kicking against the thin wooden roof with all his strength. The wood did not give way. Outside, his men were still screaming, but with every agonising eternity he spent locked in the carriage, fighting to get out, their screams grew hoarser and fewer. Then they stopped, and the silence was broken only by his own harsh breathing.

“Oh please…” he prayed into the dark, cradling Aine’s unconscious body to his chest, “please, anyone…”

His wish was granted when the sounds of another group of riders came closer.

“We found them!” was shouted in Nilfgaardian, soon mingling with exclamations of horror and confusion. So the usurper’s lackeys had caught up with them at last, just days away from the border, just hours away from hope. Bitterly, he felt the tears of utter frustration fall to his cheeks. The carriage shook as the dead horse was dragged off the top, and then men with torches glanced down at him. They did not even bother to drag him out, they just started bashing in the carriage roof with axes. With every hit, he cradled Aine closer. She moaned softly, and clutched back. Maybe, he thought, they would at least spare her. He closed his eyes when the axes finally broke away a large piece of the roof, and rough, gauntleted hands dragged first her and then him outside. Surrounded by enemies, he was thrown onto his knees, watching as his love was carelessly dumped by the roadside. Her terrified face was smeared in blood.

“Emhyr var Emreis, on behalf of the Senate of Nilfgaard, and in the name of the Consul, I sentence you to death!” a passionless voice exclaimed above him, and in the flickering torchlight he saw the shadow of an axe rise above his neck.

“I could, of course, be tempted to aid,” a jovial voice commented from the side as the whole scene froze.

Emhyr looked up, perplexed. Was this death? A ragged-looking man in a yellow and blue tunic sat on the road, right next to where he knelt.

“Who are you?” Emhyr demanded. Suddenly, he felt incredibly tired. His limbs would barely move.

“I have many names, but you may call me O’Dimm,” the man allowed with a dark flicker in his eyes. He was the coach driver, Emhyr thought with confusion. At the same time he was certain he had never seen the man in his service before. O’Dimm got up, coming to stand above the kneeling emperor: “I will make it quick, since really, you don’t have much time. I will offer you a very simple deal: one wish, in exchange for one soul. You pick the first, I pick the latter. What do you say?”

Emhyr stared at the ground, unable to lift his head. His thoughts were racing: “Take her to safety, then. As you said, my time is running out.”

“So uncharacteristically altruistic. Do you want to lighten your conscience, after all those years, when death is close? I am vaguely… repulsed,” the stranger spat, “Come on, I assure you quite anything is possible. Be creative. Ask for a miracle. Just wish away!”

Emhyr grit his teeth. It seemed that fate was out to mock him, before it would finally dispose of him. “Fine then,” he snorted sarcastically, “Take us both to safety, and give me more time to enjoy the miracle of life.”

“Still dreadfully boring, but very well. That would make two souls,” O’Dimm commented, holding out his hand to shake in agreement.

“Unfortunately, I only have one to spare,” the emperor spat, and resolutely stared at the shadow of the axe blade above his neck.

“I see,” O’Dimm said in a contemplative tone, and withdrew his hand. Emhyr felt the weight lift from his back, and straightened, when the axe blade suddenly nicked his neck. Through narrowed eyes, he fixed the stranger. Calculatingly, they stared at each other in silent challenge. Then, almost lazily, O’Dimm drew a spoon from his tunic and viciously poked it into a soldier’s eye.

“Oops”, he said en passant, giving Emhyr a delighted little smile, before he began to walk over to Aine, and cradled her head. Slowly, he drew another spoon from his clothes.

“Stop,” Emhyr said, not waiting any further. It was pointless to draw out the inevitable. He held out his hand. “If you take her away from this place, not a hair on her body harmed, I will play your game.”

O’Dimm grinned widely, and took his hand. A sudden, sickening feeling of being ripped away and _squeezed_ shot through Emhyr’s entire consciousness. Everything went dark for a second, and he blinked frantically, trying to breathe. Opening his eyes, he looked at himself, watching in frozen horror as the axe came down and dug deeply into his neck. His face, contorted in surprise, moved slightly, eyes widening, but there was not even time to scream before his body hit the dirt and his neck was broken. Another few rough hits severed his head fully, which was picked up by a soldier and stuffed into a large metal container. Grubby hands picked up the signet ring from his hand, and the chain of office that was lying in the mud in front of his body, doused in the blood spurting from his severed arteries.

He did not remember anything too clearly after that. Something dragged him away, and he stumbled through the wood, aimlessly, like in the horrors of his distant youth. The trees snagged onto him, and he fell several times, feeling weak and wrong. A woman’s feeble cries echoed in his ears, but he could not find Aine anywhere.

When he came to a second time, he was cold. The moist soil of the forest seeped into his clothes and made them heavy. Blearily, he stared down onto his gloved, narrow hand. It seemed wrong. Unsteadily, he peeled back the glove. The hand below was pale and small, unblemished. He stared at it dizzily, then followed the line of the earthen ground to his legs. Experimentally, he wriggled his toes, but found them cold, painful, and confined. After a few breaths, he gingerly pushed himself up from the ground and leaned against the roots of a nearby tree. Trying to coordinate his unresponsive limbs, he bent towards his feet, but something hard squeezed his torso, and restricted his breath. Awkwardly bending the knee, he managed to drag the small silvery slippers off, and spread and wriggled his toes in relief. Dumbly, he stared at the stained and torn silken skirts around his legs.

Aine …

Aghast, he touched his face. It did not feel familiar, at least not as his own. O’Dimm had twisted his wishes, he realised after a long moment. The fact itself did not surprise him, after all a creature of his kind was always said to do so, but what irked – no, enraged – him was how easily he had let his own words be turned against him. He had no illusions over whose soul O’Dimm had taken; who had died in his body so gruesomely. At least, he thought bitterly, it had been swift. As always, he was quick to forge his pain into strength. Through sheer power of will, more than physical means, he pushed himself to his feet. Standing upright, the corset confined him less, and he managed to tear off the worst tatters of the dress, as well as the ruined stockings. Clad in Aine’s clothes (he was not ready to think of _wearing_ her body), he looked around in search of orientation. In some distance, he could hear the gurgling of a rivulet. Following the water, he eventually emerged from the woods onto a lake shore. Across the waters towered the beautiful castle of Beauclair, his cousin’s residence.

With renewed determination, he stalked along the shoreline. His naked feet had begun to ache, but he paid them no heed. He did not stop to rest for fear of letting the body’s pains in the moment he faltered. Slowly he began to climb the incline of the coast as he neared the town. People stared at him as he walked past, whispering. He stumbled once on a protruding piece of pavement and scabbed his toes and knees. He got up, and walked on, towards the gates. A guard frowned when he came closer, and stepped forward. The world tilted, and the guard’s lips moved without sound, before they disappeared into the rising black.

 

 

 


	3. The Duchess' Orders

“There was another attack,” Damien said in lieu of greeting, bowed deep over his desk. The captain’s study was a stifling room above the guard’s mess hall, right below the roof. Geralt had been dragged from his vines at noon by a frenzied messenger. But then and there Damien’s posture made him think that not only the messenger was feeling troubled.

“Is it somebody important?” the vintner asked.

“In a manner of speaking, most certainly, yes,” the captain covered his face with his hands. With a deep sigh, he motioned the vintner to follow. They left the guard’s quarters behind, and entered the palace through one of the doors on the lower levels. Geralt thought he recognised the chambers in which Syanna had been kept before her trial. What occurred to him then was the eerie silence of the servants frequenting these corridors. Damien opened a guarded door, and bade him enter. On a bed against the far side of the room he could vaguely make out a sleeping woman. Her forehead was bandaged, with a shock of black hair spilling over the pillow.

“This woman was found earlier today, collapsing at the city gates.”

“And she was attacked by the fiend?” Geralt guessed.

“We don’t know for certain, she has not yet woken up. But there has been … an incident of exceptionally significant dimensions. Her Grace has demanded absolute discretion the moment she was brought here.” Damien hesitated, lowering his gaze.

“Would you care to enlighten me to my role here, or does this discretion not include me?” the vintner frowned. An unpleasant feeling for foreboding made his hackles stand.

“It does. You remember the warning you gave me about attacking the fiend, and letting it escape?” The captain sent him a desperate, guilty look. “Well, the worst has come to pass. We had the creature cornered, but it slipped away with its magic. We tracked it south, when we hit upon a party of riders. At first we thought they had been attacked, because the corpses of men and horses were lying about, but then their leader informed us otherwise.”

“If these men were still alive, and the others dead, was it a second party that found the first?” Geralt guessed, and Damien nodded gravely.

“In fact, they were in pursuit of the first. A matter of state.” He inhaled deeply, licking his lips. “The party under attack was the former emperor’s carriage, escaping a coup in the capital. The second party was sent by the new military leaders in charge, at the behest of the Imperial Senate.”

“And the emperor?” Geralt asked stonily.

Damien swallowed, and looked away: “Dead. Beheaded. We found his body, still lying in the dirt of the road. The head… gone. They did not even bother to bury the rest.” The captain was visibly disturbed, Geralt noted. He had not liked Emhyr. Their interactions, strained at the best of times, had ended on more than frosty terms. Still, he had not wished such a death upon the man, who he, if not appreciated, then at least grudgingly respected for his drive and resilience.

They did not speak for a while, both lost to their thoughts, when the door opened and the Duchess burst in. Promptly, Damien bowed, and Geralt nodded deeply: “Your Grace.”

“Witcher, excellent. I am in dire need of your service. Has the Captain filled you in?” she gazed at the man expectantly.

“He is aware of the incident, but we have not had the chance to explain the consequences,” the captain reported to his lady, whose mien darkened slightly.

“Very well, I will have to pick that up, then, won’t I?” she switched her attention back to Geralt, “If harvest season was not enough, I am now overrun by events of the most delicate Imperial politics. A Nilfgaardian party is sitting in my throne room, proclaiming the birth of a new republic under the rule of the Senate. In their carriage, they preserve my poor cousin’s severed head to return to the capital as proof for his unpalatable demise, and worst of all, given his flight to my kingdom, I am under suspicion of aiding his escape from lawful prosecution by the new government. What does this tell you, witcher?” she finished her rant with an indignant growl.

“That you are currently a very busy ruler?” he tried to be diplomatic, and she deflated a little, folding her hands as she began to pace.

“Quite so. I am a ruler under scrutiny for the slightest hint of treason, which bodes ill for the whole of Toussaint if a single leaf of grass on the palace grounds is out of line. Which means,” she paused, not very subtly rucking her head to indicate towards the bed, “that under no circumstances can I be caught harbouring a fugitive from the Emperor’s party.”

“I can see how such a charitable deed would be misunderstood,” the vintner caught on tentatively.

Anna Henrietta beamed at him: “I welcome your quick appreciation of this tremendous inconvenience. Your aid and _utmost_ discretion will be recognised at a less delicate time. Captain, why don’t you help Master Geralt with all necessary arrangements, post haste?” She awarded the captain with a hard stare, and whirled away towards the door. “And Geralt, if anybody suspects – this conversation never happened. That anybody survived the beast’s attack is something the court is entirely oblivious to. And do not under any circumstances visit the palace again as long as the political situation is not resolved. Good day, witcher.”

The vintner stared at the closing door, wincing as it hit the frame. Damien gave him a guilty stare, and shrugged helplessly.

“My plan was to bring her out of the castle in the guise of a maid or peasant woman. In this heat, any woman could faint. Send me a cart with something – I’ll get it back to you. That will make the story more credible, in case anybody thinks to ask why I send away an unconscious woman on an empty cart. What do you think?”

Geralt pondered the situation: “So Her Grace wants me to shelter the woman? Who is she anyhow?”

“Aine Dermott, Emhyr’s favourite concubine,” Damien said in a low voice.

The vintner nodded: “Do you have any idea how she survived?”

The captain shook his head: “Not much. The fiend’s attack most likely because she and the emperor were caught in the carriage, which had fallen to the side. As for why the other party did not kill her – I don’t know. Maybe she got away before they arrived. But if they ever find out she is alive, they will …you know? Too risky if she might be carrying his child, or could even just pretend to. Emhyr was the last of the royal line and-”

“I know,” Geralt cut him off. He was painfully aware of that belief.

“Then what do you think of my plan?” the captain inquired.

The vintner furrowed his brow, thinking. Then he shook his head: “I’ll take her now on horseback. That way you can explain my presence at the palace. She is my servant and was sent here for some errand, then collapsed from the heat. I was alerted to pick her up.”

Damien nodded in satisfaction: “Very well. I’ll tell the maid to get her ready.”

They stepped outside for a moment, while an older servant woman was sent away to return with a pile of clothes. After another good wait, she exited from the bedroom with a small nod in their direction. Geralt was the first to enter. The concubine had not awakened, her head still bandaged. But the blanket had been folded aside, and she was dressed in a simple white and blue summer dress. A necklace had been left on the nightstand beside her. The vintner picked it up, noting the finely-wrought locket was decorated with the golden sun. Inside he found a miniature rendition of the emperor. Suspecting by the worn metal that it was a cherished possession, he sighed and slipped it into a pouch on his belt. Then he carefully cradled the woman into his arms, and lifted her up from the bed. She moaned softly, and moved against his grip, but did not truly wake. Still, it would be better to make haste. For a second, he missed being able to cast axii. Damien opened doors for him on the way back to the guard’s quarters, where Roach was waiting, tied to a pole.

Damien stopped to take the woman while Geralt mounted his horse. They had just lifted her onto the saddle before him, when a black-armoured stranger approached them.

“Hael Republica,” he said with a strong Nilfgaardian accent, “what are you doing?”

The vintner threw the man an annoyed glance, sensing a stiffening of the body he was holding onto, while Damien glowered: “Lieutenant Galvaaren, nothing you need to concern yourself with. A local woman collapsed near the palace, we sent for her to be picked up.”

The Nilfgaardian eyed the horse, vintner, and woman critically: “A precious horse, I have to say. A purebred Nilfgaardian stallion. Very fine, indeed. How did you come by it?”

“It was a gift, a long time ago,” Geralt answered honestly, praying for Aine to remain unconscious. But he could already feel how she started to shift her body weight.

“A rather precious gift. What is your name and rank?” the man’s eyes narrowed, wandering over his stained shirt and simple clothes.

“Sir Geralt of Corvo Bianco, I own the vineyard. Her Grace bestowed a knighthood upon me.” That seemed to take the lieutenant by surprise. “You must excuse my attire, but it has been a remarkably hot week, and all hands are needed to bring the harvest in. Also,” he nodded towards the woman slumped in his arm, “I need to get her into the shade.”

“I see,” the Nilfgaardian responded, “You must be worried about your wife.” Geralt blinked in surprise. “Or did I presume too much?” the other amended his question, a probing look in his eyes.

Geralt hesitated, trying to think of a credible answer to rouse the least attention: “Only my maid,” he said at least, “but you are right, I really cannot linger. Please excuse me, but I really must depart.”

He kicked Roach into a walk, leaving the other standing. Not daring to look back, he accelerated into a slow trot, which wrung a pained moan from the woman.

“Your maid?” she whispered hoarsely, turning her face to his ear.

“Of course. How hard have you hit your head fainting?” he gruffly mumbled down to her and forced Roach back into a walk the moment they were out of sight. While on horseback, he panicked what to say to her, and only gradually relaxed a little when she remained persistently silent. Concentrating on the road gave him some time to think about what would happen when they reached the estate – how to explain her presence.

“You need a name,” began awkwardly on an empty stretch of road, “and a story why I am taking you to my estate.”

“Myrah,” she answered after a while, her voice low but steady, “my name is Myrah.”

 

~*~

 

Emhyr’s head hurt. The light was too bright, sending bolts of agony through his skull every time he tried to blink. Held on the swaying horse by the man with the strangely soothing voice, he let himself rest against his chest, letting the rocking motion lull him away. Whatever was happening, he momentarily had no strength to contemplate or resist it. From beneath lowered lashes, he spied lush greens interrupted by golden ochres of sandy streets, the deep plums of ripe grapes, and occasionally the bright cyan of the sky reflected in a rivulet by the road. When they left the wider road for a track that led towards a white house on a hill, more and more people looked up from their work with the vines, and stared. The hooves of the horse clicked on the stone pavement of a courtyard, which a large sun sail protected from the merciless rays. In the shade of the open stable, Emhyr finally dared to fully open his eyes for the first time since he was awake. A concerned-looking man in good clothing hurried to their side, as the vintner dismounted behind him. He helped Emhyr slide of the horse and sit on a hay bale, before addressing the newcomer.

“Barnabas-Basil, this is the newest addition to our household. Her name is Myrah, and she needs to rest. Could you find Marlene, and tell her to get the guestroom ready?”

“Certainly, sire,” Barnabas-Basil bowed, casting one more curious glance at him before he turned on his heel and strode away.

While the master of the house unsaddled the horse, Emhyr took the opportunity to scrutinise him from behind. The man was strong, but his arms scarred beneath the rolled up shirt, and his hair greying. A veteran most likely, now a landed knight for his service to the duchess. His voice, Emhyr thought with a nagging feeling, was strangely familiar. He had yet to get a good long glimpse of his face. The horse, meanwhile, was oddly familiar too. Any connoisseur would recognise the excellent breeding. A pure-blooded Nilfgaardian of this calibre could have well adorned the emperor’s stable. He blinked.

“Master Geralt, I came as fast as I could,” the grisly voice of an ancient woman wheezed from the open stable gates.

In that moment the vintner turned around, and Emhyr stared horrified into the guileless blue eyed of a blond rendition of the accursed witcher. The man before him looked plainly human, no cat eyes, yet the scars… He could not be mistaken! How many Geralts could be running around with that particular face?

“Thank you, Marlene. Marlene is my cook – Marlene, this is Myrah. Dandelion needed a place for a friend to stay, and I thought you could use a hand around the house from time to time.”

The cook gave Myrah a rather mistrustful glance up and down. Then her wrinkly face softened: “Well, be welcome, my dear. Whatever happened to you?” She gently touched his bandaged forehead, and Emhyr flinched. Cautiously, Marlene withdrew her hand. His face heated in embarrassed anger at the liberties taken with his personal space.

“I was meant to pick her up in town,” the vintner explained, “but she was early and took a walk. In the heat, she got dizzy and hit her head falling.”

Marlene frowned: “Lucky then you found each other. That must have been a rather spontaneous request from Master Dandelion – I should hope he is not in trouble?” she paused, with a suspicious look to her master, who had returned his attention to the stallion Emhyr was now certain had been a gift from him.

“Well,” Marlene huffed, addressing Myrah, “we best get you a nice cool bath, and take a look at that head of yours.” She gave her master’s turned back a baleful stare, before waving at Myrah to follow her. Emhyr bit his teeth, and set one painful step after another. His feet _burned_. Noticing his slow and halting gait, the ancient and remarkably spry woman waited for him with a deepening frown. On the porch that wrapped around the front and side of the main house, she told him to make his way around the corner towards a stream that crossed the estate behind the house. As directed, he followed a short wooden walkway past a cluster of dense bushes. Into the natural slope of the hill, between the rocky sides of the river bed, a small dam had been erected to create a bathing pool. The bushes and rock formations left it quite secluded from view, while a pine tree branching over the river provided shadow. A wooden platform had been set right next to the water. Gingerly, he sat himself on a smooth rock and breathed down the rising panic.

Short breaths in, long breaths out. Repeat.

When he had calmed himself sufficiently, he began to peel off the rough leather shoes and stockings. The bandages around his feet were sprinkled with dry and fresh blood stains, and stuck a little to the fresh wounds. He removed them with a few deft pulls, before sliding down to the wooden platform edge and dropping his lower legs into the numbing cold of the water. He had rucked up the - the _dress_ far enough to keep it dry. Cautiously, he looked around, but found himself alone and unmolested. Slowly, he opened the simple ties of the outer blue garment, and pulled it over his head. The bodice was a harder piece of work, but he managed by blocking out the implications and focussing on the task at hand. Clad in only the thin white underdress, he carefully lowered himself into the pool.

The cold was a blessing. Lazily, he spread his arms in a stroke, and drifted to the other side of the pool, where the rock formed a smooth bank under the water. He sat there for a while, closing is eyes with a sigh. Eventually he heard steps and opened them again. Marlene was perched on the rock where he himself had sat moments before. On her lap she carried a basket. A towel was folded on top.

“If you are ready?” she asked with soft impatience, and Emhyr reminded himself that a maid was not supposed to lounge in a pool for extended amounts of time. Carefully, he pushed himself off the stone and back to the platform. The thin white linen had become quite transparent, and clung to Aine’s body as he pushed himself onto the wood. Awkwardly, he stood, wincing as his sore feet took his weight. Marlene held the towel open for him with a pointed look, and he quickly dragged the wet dress over his head and sloppily towelled himself off. Another white shift was provided, and he flung the blue dress on top, foregoing the bodice. Marlene then put a set of light sandals at his feet. They did not fit very well, but for the short distance to the house he was simply glad to keep the cuts clean. Inside, he followed Marlene into the kitchen for a redressing of his wounds and a meal of grapes, cheese, and water. When it was finished, she led him up the stairs.

“This is the guestroom of the master’s house,” she said with clear disapproval, “Master Geralt had it readied for you. I’ll be downstairs as long as the sun is up, if you need anything.”

When she had left, Emhyr felt his tense shoulders relax a little. Curiously, he looked around. The cosy attic room was nicely done up, with a wardrobe, a desk, and a single bed shoved under the slope of the roof. A colourful blanket had been folded back over fresh white linen sheets. For some unfathomable reason, a picture of Hemmelfahrt of all people hung on the wall. With disgust, he picked it up and stuffed it behind the wardrobe. Then he collapsed on the bed.

By the time he awoke, the light from the window painted the room in reds. It was swelteringly hot, and he pushed off the tangled sheets. He felt sweaty and hungry, and his feet burned the moment he put weight on them. Spotting a bowl, soap, and jug on the desk, he washed his hands and face, before peeking into the wardrobe. It was almost empty, but a few garments were folded on the bottom shelf. Among the small pile, he found a pair of light leather trousers, underclothes, vest, and a white shirt. A small amount of trying revealed they were decisively too small for him. He did not even bother with the high boots tucked onto another shelf. Briefly, he wondered who they garments belonged to. Closing the wardrobe, he explored the rest of the room, but found nothing apart from a candle and chamber pot that was of any possible use. Reliving his noticeably full bladder brought him into face with _other novelties_ he felt rather ill at ease with.

Having finished his explorations and other necessities, he laboriously made his way downstairs. A chandelier was burning on the dinner table. From the kitchen, he heard the clattering of dishes being done. Expecting Marlene, Emhyr was surprised to find the master of the house rinsing dishes in a large bowl. Geralt nodded to him, and put the plate he was holding down, before picking up a scoop from a cauldron over the fire, and ladling some kind of stew into a bowl. He put it on a tray, already set with bread and some greens, and motioned for Myrah to follow him back to the dining room. Unsure what was expected of him, Emhyr sat and thanked the vintner for the food.

“You’re welcome,” the man mumbled, sitting down across from him and pouring himself a cup of wine. He lifted the bottle in question, and Emhyr nodded cautiously, watching as a second cup was poured for him. An awkward silence lay over their meal, while the vintner scrutinised him carefully as he polished off his meal.

When Emhyr had soaked up the last drops of the delicious stew with a chunk of bread, Geralt cleared his throat: “We should discuss the story to tell my servants and any visitor, who you are, why you are here.”

Emhyr inclined his head in agreement: “I gather that some parts of this story were already improvised on the way?”

The vintner nodded with a slight blush: “You are a new maid in my employ, a favour I am doing my irresponsible friend Dandelion, who has a reputation for getting beautiful women in trouble. He has an inn in Novigrad, the Chameleon, and is a famous bard. You may choose your story from there.”

Emhyr winced, but had to acknowledge that a young woman misled by a bard was a credible enough excuse to turn up out of nowhere and without possessions: “Cast out my her family after a dalliance with the bard, Myrah arrived in Beauclair with a group of travelling merchants who turned out to be less than chivalrous, which is why she ran through the woods, fainted,” he amended gruffly, “and was helpfully picked up by a guard at Lebioda’s gate. I prefer not to talk about the first part of that story ever again, but Marlene might inquire after my feet, and the guard at the gate did see me in a rather bedraggled state.”

Geralt’s gaze turned into concern, but wisely he said nothing. Then, he suddenly jumped up and disappeared through a door, only to return swiftly with something small in his hands. He sat the tiny leather pouch on the table in front of Emhyr. Curiously, Emhyr peeked inside, and then upended the pouch into his hand.

“I believe this is yours,” the vintner offered distantly.

Emhyr stared at Aine’s locket, carefully flipping open the latch. His own bodiless face looked back at him. It had been a gift. With a twist of his mouth, he snapped the locket shut, trying to calm his suddenly racing heart. Before his mind’s eye, he saw the axe coming down, again and again. Again…

Vaguely he became aware of someone touching his hand. Opening eyes he had not knowingly closed, he stared into Geralt’s concerned ones. The hard metal of the locket stung in his clenched fist, which was cradled lightly by the vintner’s large warm palm. He loosened his fingers reflexively.

Neither of them said anything, and their hands remained crossed over the table. Then, cautiously, the vintner withdrew and got up from his chair.

“I should go to bed,” Emhyr heard Aine’s voice say faintly. He got up, looking at the tray before him.

“I’ll do that,” Geralt said with a gruff voice, and more gently: “Get some sleep.”

Emhyr made use of the offer to retreat at once. Lying in his hot room upstairs, he listened to the noises of the house and the night, unable to sleep. His thoughts were in shambles, and he found himself barely able to hold all the different and fast impressions together. With a frustrated groan, he turned onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. For now, he would lay low, and regroup. Then he would evaluate the situation and plan his next steps.

 

 

 

 


	4. The False Maid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thx for the reviews and kudos, and let me know what you think!  
> by the by, I'm currently out of new story ideas and accepting challenges... just drop me a message if you have something in mind.

The morning came, indifferent to the sleeplessness that had plagued the vintner in the hours of darkness. With the light returned the heat, and the call to work. As master of the house, Geralt allowed himself to slumber a tad longer, but with the knowledge that the grapes would spoil, and that he would not truly find rest anyhow, he eventually rolled himself out of the sheets. Sitting on the side of the bed, he rubbed his face, postponing the moment just a bit longer, before he pushed himself up. From the chair, he grabbed yesterday’s clothes and threw them in the hamper, before he wrapped a towel around his hips and made his way to the pool. He had some soap tucked into a niche in the stones, which he used to clean himself. With the morning well on the way, he wasted no further time and returned to the house. From the doorway he heard Marlene bustling in the kitchen. A clean set of work clothes was already laid out on the bed.

This did not bode well. Over the years of their relationship he had grown accustomed to having her care for his household, but they had generally drawn the line when it came to his person. If she had invaded his dressing routine that usually indicated a need to talk. Fastening the last button, he shuffled into his shoes and made his way to the kitchen.

Marlene did not deign him with a word as he came in. Instead she thrust a tray with a large breakfast into his hands and shooed him off to the table. His servants rarely ate with him, and if they did, it was only for certain occasions, such as the end of the harvest, when a feast was arranged for everyone. It bothered him, increasingly less so because it made him stand out hierarchically, but ever more so because it meant he had to eat alone. Pondering the matter, he considered the opportunity and made his way upstairs.

“Myrah?” he announced himself half-way up the stairs, “Can I come up?”

He heard a ruffling sound, then an affirmation. Climbing the last steps, the guestroom came into view. His guest was standing by the window, hands folded and shoulders stiff. She wore yesterday’s blue dress, sans the bodice, which reminded him that he would need to organise some clothes for her.

“I brought breakfast. I thought you might want to share it with me,” he held up the tray.

Myrah, eyebrows drawn together, nodded tentatively.

“On the porch?” he suggested, and led the way. Turning right from the front door, a wooden roof stretched over the corner of two house walls. A bench had been tucked into the shadowy open area beneath. The witcher placed the tray down between them. As before, they ate in silence. The servants were already out in the vines, and the courtyard was fairly deserted at the hour. Only a few men were emptying the must from the stomping vats into the tubs for fermentation, which were then taken down into the cellars, where the yeast would do the next step.

“How are your feet?” the vintner wondered, having noticed her slow gait. Myrah tilted her head from side to side.

“Not great,” she admitted.

“Let me take a look?” he requested, holding his hand out towards her leg, and she swivelled around to place her calf into it. Unwinding the bandages, Geralt could see that most of the cuts were healing, but some of them were red and hot. While the wounds had been cleaned, clearly that had not staved off infection. He frowned, carefully probing the flesh: “I agree. A friend of mine in the area is a very knowledgeable herbalist and doctor – I’ll pay him a visit later for a poultice or something. I suggest you stay off your feet as much as possible until then.”

Myrah huffed, raising her eyebrows to the obvious. While she remained seated outside, he brought the empty tray back in and found a few books he thought she might like to pass the time. He was just on his way back outside when Marlene waylaid him in the main room.

“Sire, may I have a few words?” she asked primly, and he knew by the formality she disproved of something.

“Of course,” he offered, leaning against the dinner table.

“About this young woman,” Marlene began tentatively, pursing her lips, “I cannot help but wonder which role she is meant to take in this household.” At Geralt’s questioning frown, she elaborated. “It just seems all quite sudden, and she does not strike me as… if I may take the liberty of saying it bluntly, she was not possibly ever a servant before. Am I mistaken?”

Nothing ever went past Marlene, Geralt thought. Giving her a hard stare from under his drawn eyebrows, he nodded. His cook preened a little.

“You are right,” he acknowledged softly, “but Marlene – no one must know. It would put her in danger, and us as well.” At Marlene’s rather troubled look, he added: “The duchess asked this favour of me. Marlene – no one must know that Myrah is anything but my new maid.”

His cook shook her head in disbelief, sighed deeply, and rolled up her sleeves: “Well then you will need my help”, she said rather loftily, “and _Myrah_ will need to adjust quickly, otherwise any donkey will realise she is a noble woman.”

“Thank you, truly. I will leave her in your capable hands.” Geralt squeezed her shoulder briefly, and added “Tell me if you see any further difficulties” on his way out to bring Myrah the books. “And Marlene,” he said in another afterthought, “I will be riding out to get some medicine for her from Regis. I should be back soon. Do you think Myrah needs anything from town? Nevermind, I’ll just ask her.”

 

~*~

 

Left alone inside, Marlene shook her head. She might as well have bashed it against the wall for all the good it would do her. Gathering her wits, she considered how to proceed. Pouring two glasses of watered-down wine, she went to join the new woman outside.

Myrah looked up from her book, the story of Lara Dorren and Cragen of Lod.

“And unlikely love story, rather romanticised I would say,” Marlene commented, sitting down next to the woman and setting the second glass down beside her.

“Unlikelier things have come to pass,” Myrah responded without raising her gaze. But she closed the book, and laid it down in her lap.

“We both know you are not a maid,” Marlene said so lowly that nobody could hear. From the corner of her eye, she could not discern any immediate physical response. So at least the girl could act.

“Why, mam?” Myrah asked, looking at her with innocent eyes. Marlene snorted: “It’s rather obvious, and don’t simplify your sentences on my behalf now. Master Geralt has already admitted there is a story going on.” She gave the woman a long look. “I don’t need to know the details, or what on earth brought you here, but unless you can consistently change your language, posture, habits, and reactions towards a greater amount of subservience, we might need to think of a better story that passing you off as a maid.”

“And you have an idea?” Myrah intoned with interest, taking a sip from her goblet.

“My lord is a man of a certain reputation when it comes to women,” Marlene stated the simple truth, and waited for Myrah’s eyebrow to raise almost all the way up to her hairline.

“And you think to pass me off as an object of his promiscuity?” she said doubtfully.

“He already eats with you, brings you books, and rides out himself in the middle of the harvest to procure medicine from a doctor for an ailment he could mix a decent poultice for himself,” Marlene pointed out. She was slightly surprised to see the stunned look on Myrah’s face. Surely a woman as exceptionally beautiful as her could not have missed such acts of courtship from suitors before. Maybe she had been married young, or raised strictly?

“You think Geralt of Rivia takes … such an interest in me?” she asked wearily, and Marlene could not help but chuckle at her wide eyes.

“Darling, I’m not saying you should indulge that old skirt chaser – I am merely pointing out that more than one man under public scrutiny has presented an illicit lover as a maid.” She gave Myrah a smile, which the younger woman shared tentatively after a moment of contemplation.

“That would allow me to slip up more often in my pitiful attempts to play the maid?” she considered, tilting her head.

“And let you credibly keep your soft bed in the main house,” Marlene added dryly, and Myrah rather seemed to see her point.

“Alright,” she nodded, and offered a little toast.

“Then I suggest you put those books away, and I will teach you the joys of housework you can do off your feet.” Marlene closed the discussion, and got up.

Myrah rolled her eyes, giving the cook a slightly disparaging look, but nodded: “What do you want me to do?”

“You can help me cut the vegetables for lunch,” she considered, “and then there are some garments that need mending. I’ll teach you the basics of that too.”

 

~*~

 

When Geralt returned home from his stop at Regis’ crypt, he took the route through town. Leading Roach past the colourful shops near the Gran Place, he wondered what Myrah could need. On his way out he had given her the books, but completely forgotten to ask what else she might require. He reckoned that clothes were the most important thing, including some soft shoes that would let the wounds heal better. Maybe a hat to shield her fair skin from the sun? Going by the cartloads of items Yennefer had always travelled with, women needed a lot of things. Well, he thought, Ciri was fine with a backpack. So it depended on the woman. Given that Aine had been an emperor’s concubine, he guessed she was used to the upper end of things.

Hopelessly overwhelmed, he visited the tailor to arrange for Myrah to have her measurements taken. He bought a bag with soap, lily scented oil, and … _hair things_ , which the seller assured him contained the basics any woman needed. On a hunch, he also purchased a wide-brimmed straw hat with a deep red bow and some false flowers of the same colour. It came with a box, and the vendor assured him it was the latest fashion. Satisfied with his progress, he slung himself in the saddle and hurried back to the estate.

When he rode into the courtyard, he immediately noticed the vacant bench near the entrance. Quickly untacking Roach, he picked up his purchases and went to look for Myrah. He found her the moment he entered the house, sitting on a dining room chair in the kitchen and peeling potatoes. When she saw him standing in the open door, she threw him a shy smile that suddenly made his heart jump. Then she looked away and just kept chatting to Marlene.

“I have the poultice,” he said awkwardly, strangely feeling like the odd wheel between his guest and his cook. Myrah smiled again and voiced a soft “thank you”, whereupon Marlene admonished her to get back to her tasks. Geralt swallowed, not quite understanding what was happening: “I’ll leave it on the desk in your room.” Slightly perturbed, he placed Regis’ jar, the bag with toiletries, and the hat box into the guest room, and escaped the house to help his workers process the grapes.


	5. Ladylike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aine looks a lot like Anne Hathaway, to make the description easy…

If recent decapitations had not mercilessly brought him face to face with the full horror of being executed, Emhyr might have considered joking – to himself at least – that going to the tailor amounted to a rather similar experience. As it was, he desisted. It brought up dark thoughts that he preferred to sink the moment they surfaced.

His wounds had healed remarkably fast with the new poultice. After only a week of treatment his feet barely showed red lines where the skin had been torn. He wondered how the witcher had ever gotten so scarred, if he had a friend who could concoct such medicines. With the relief of being able to walk had come a list of new duties that Marlene compiled for him. It had predictable things on it, like handcraft and cooking lessons, the former of which he surprisingly enjoyed, and the latter of which he utterly detested. A lengthy morning of helping two other maids with the laundry had left him distressingly exhausted, and only his pride had kept him from dropping the soap into the bucket and cause a scene. Marlene had found him in complete misery when she collected him for lunch. The afternoon had been spent baking, which at least required a marginal increment of his mental faculties to measure out the right amounts and follow the cook’s detailed instructions on how to knead the dough, so that the bread would come out fluffy.

When he had climbed to his room that night, hands aching, he had carefully folded his dress and swore to pay more heed not to get is dirty as quickly. His gaze had fallen onto the hat Geralt had given to him. For the first time, he became aware of the skill and work that must have gone into the delicate cloth flowers. The hat was far nicer than anything the regular servants wore, and it seemed hardly appropriate to put it on for work. So he had left the gift in its box to await the right occasion.

That occasion had come a week later when Geralt took him to the tailor. The vintner suggested he had business in town anyhow – a rather transparent lie – and that it seemed only right to take Myrah along. Thinking to strengthen his charade, Emhyr had spent the morning in front of the small mirror on his desk, trying to figure out how to wear a hat. When he had first put it on his head, it had looked funny. The first instinct had been to banish hat and mirror to the dark under the bed, but that would have made him look ungrateful to the vintner’s courteousness. It would not do to lose the few assets he had. Pushing aside the glum feelings, he had re-evaluated the situation. It had occurred to him eventually that the ladies at court always had their hair done up when wearing a hat. He gave his frustrated mirror-image a triumphant grin.

In the toiletry bag, Emhyr had located some pins and hair ties. With the materials at hand, he had been determined to figure out the technique. A good while later, he conceded grudging and temporary defeat, and simply twisted the long dark tresses into a bun at the nape of his neck. That was easy enough. The hat had come on top. Downstairs, Marlene had raised a wry eyebrow, and then hurried off to return with two rather long, thick needles with ornamental heads. The cook had stuck the needles – which he realised in relief were blunt at the point – through the material of the hat and beneath his hair.

“That way it won’t blow off as quickly,” she had explained with a fond frown, and shooed him outside, where the vintner was already waiting with the horse. Shortly after, on horseback and holding onto the man sitting in front of him, he could still feel the heat of the inexplicable blush that had risen to his cheeks when Geralt had stared at him like… well, like a man sometimes looked at a woman. Emhyr would have liked to think that he was offended by the _ogling_. But in the daring attempt of being honest with himself, he had to admit he was just a tad charmed. Could this insanity be attributed to being stuck in Aine’s body – or was this a further joke fate was making at his expense?

The rest of the journey was spent making sure not to fall off the horse, and for the hat not to fly away in the light breeze. The day got ever more peculiar when they arrived at the tailor. As soon became clear, neither the vintner nor he had any idea what amount of garments was appropriate. Whereas Geralt had escaped the shop, leaving the choice of what was needed to Myrah, Emhyr was stuck with an expectant-looking couturier. Helplessly, he wished he had Marlene’s calm expertise at hand, but the cook had remained at the estate.

“What does Madame require?” the tailor asked while taking his measurements. Emhyr felt exposed.

He sent a prayer to the great sun and swallowed down the unease: “My entire wardrobe was lost on a recent journey. I currently have what I wear on loan. I expect I will need at least two casual outfits, suitable for everyday work in the house, all … underwear and accessories required for me to get by, including shoes, nightwear, and,” he hesitated briefly, “one outfit for special occasions, in red, fitting to the hat.”

At the realisation of a substantial order, the tailor almost jumped with joy: “With the greatest pleasure, Madame,” he bowed, and twirled around, “Shall I present some fashionable cuts and fabrics?”

When Geralt stopped by to pick him up around mid-day, Emhyr was still picking fabrics, even though he had nodded off almost anything the tailor put in front of him. The vintner waited, politely engaging in conversation when asked what he thought of _Madame’s_ selections. Emhyr was surprised when Geralt actually offered his thoughts: that the porcelain cotton would set off her taint better than the bone coloured linen, that both the ruby and the wine red suited her excellently, and that the dark indigo was a good choice, though he thought that the dark umber would be a better pick than the burnt sienna, the sage green better than the mint. In the end, the vintner left a rather hefty down payment at the shop, with the promise of free delivery and adjustments.

Emhyr was so exhausted by the time they left the shop that they sat down for a drink in Adder and Jewel’s Winery. He was picking on a delicious raspberry tarte, when a loud blond man roused the whole tavern’s attention by slapping Geralt on the back and greeting him as the saviour of the city. Only then did Emhyr put the pieces together: Geralt had been the witcher to stop the legendary Beast of Beauclair. He reckoned with the other’s penchant to end up in the censored pages of political history, he should not have been surprised. The blond menace introduced himself as Guillaume de Launfal, and was about to seat his irritating self at their table, when he had enough.

“Excuse me, Sire,” he begged Guillaume down to reach his ear and deposited a few well-targeted words in the vacant head.

The blond stiffened, then smiled brightly. “Of course, my dear, I will be on my way promptly”, he whispered back, and stepped away from the table. “I am terribly sorry, my dear friend,” Guillaume addressed Geralt, “but I have just recalled a rather important appointment, so I must be on my way. Do enjoy your meal with this enchanting lady.” He winked rather obviously at him, and Emhyr supressed a shudder and bared his teeth to a forced smile. Geralt seemed quite relieved to see the man go.

“How do you know each other?” Emhyr wondered askance.

The vintner winced: “I helped him with a cursed lady, and after she rejected his advances, he stopped talking to me. Unfortunately, he has lately reconsidered that attitude. How did you manage to get rid of him so quickly?”

“I told him he was interfering with a romantic lunch during which I had hoped to monopolise your attention,” Emhyr deadpanned with a blank face. The witcher chocked on his wine, and coughed hard a few times, tears falling from the corners of his eyes.

“I see,” he rasped, “in that case I should never eat without you again.”

Emhyr looked at the vintner uneasily, not sure what to make of that comment. While Geralt covered their tab, he sought out the public restrooms, only in the last second remembering to enter the ladies. Washing her hands, he took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. Aine’s large dark eyes stared back contemplatively under the pretty red hat.

“My, what would I give for your smooth skin, my dear!” a rotund older woman said, washing her hands next to him.

“It’s not for sale,” Emhyr muttered under his breath, leaving the room ahead of the busybody.

Geralt was waiting for him outside, and out of sheer annoyance he wrapped his hand around the other’s elbow and dragged the slightly confused man away. Together, they meandered down the Gran Place, Roach in tow, towards Cooper’s gate. Once out of the pedestrian crowds, Geralt whistled for the horse to stand still as he deftly lifted Myrah into the saddle, and swung himself up behind her. As his chest came to rest against his back, Emhyr felt a stroke of thunder go down inside his stomach. The vintner’s arms came around him to grasp the reins. The hat got in the way, so he pulled out the needles and tucked them into his bodice, holding the hat on his lap as Geralt urged on the stallion. Ever so slowly, he let himself fall back against the warm chest, feeling the prickle of Geralt’s beard against his ear. With a strangely mournful pang, Emhyr realised that he felt not only completely safe in those arms, but also rather enticed. Perhaps it was the total madness and precariousness of his current existence, but he could not find the will to restrict himself to reasonable behaviour. Curiously, he curled his free hand over the vintner’s calloused one on the reins. A puff of exhale reached his neck.

“You want the reins?” Geralt asked roughly, lips almost brushing the shell of Emhyr’s ear.

“Yes,” he replied nervously, taking the reins as Geralt slowly let his hands drop onto Myrah’s thighs. One hand came up to curl around his midriff. With a tingle of excitement curling in his muscles, Emhyr kicked Roach (what a shameful name for the purebred Nilfgaardian…) into a canter, and then a gallop. Together, they flew over the road. Mindful not to strain the horse too much, Emhyr slowed it down before the next curve of the road, and for the last mile, they gradually fell back into a walk. They were just out of sight of the estate, crossing below the low branches of a pine, when Geralt brought up his hands to stay the horse. Then he wrapped both of his arms around Myrah, and buried his face against her neck.

“I am quite attracted to you,” he confessed against her skin, “if you had not noticed already. If my attention is unwelcome, please tell me now, and I won’t bother you again.”

Emhyr felt his heartbeat thunder is his ears a few times, frozen in place by the sudden change of pace. Time had unexpectedly accelerated to demand a decision. Centring himself, Emhyr decided. Then Myrah turned her head over the shoulder against which Geralt had pressed his nose.

“For whatever madness my life is now, and all I may not reveal about myself,” she inhaled shakily, “a little distraction might not be entirely unwelcome.”

The vintner’s arms tightened around her, and he pressed his lips into her neck: “Would you like to take a little detour to a wonderful viewing spot?”

She nodded, and he steered Roach onto the road towards the estate, but then further ahead past the vineyard and onto the top of the hill. Passing into the light forest, they reached a secluded spot atop a steep decline that awarded a wonderful panorama over Corvo Bianco. Leaving Roach to graze, they tumbled against a tree. Softly framing Myrah’s face in his hands, the vintner kissed her gently at first, then ever more urgently. Her arms had come up around his chest, dragging at his vest while his hands trailed over her collarbones towards the laces of her bodice. She unbuttoned his vest and let it drop to the ground, returning to drag his shirt from the belt holding up his hose. Meanwhile the vintner’s hands had crept under her skirts, caressing along the back of her legs. Pressing her firmly against the tree with his body weight, Geralt ground his hips against hers, and she felt the hardness of his loins.

Experiencing arousal in Aine’s body was different, Emhyr found. Her nether regions were tingling, and when Geralt’s fingers found her folds, she could feel the digits slide easily against her wetness. The touch dragged a keening sound from his lips as the vintner began to repeatedly brush his fingertip over her clit. Myrah shuddered, squeezing the vintner’s erection through the fabric of his codpiece. Dragging on the laces keeping the fabric in place, she gained access to his braies, which – once the tie at the waist was opened –were conveniently loose enough to drag his manhood into the open. Confidently caressing the familiar type of organ, Myrah sucked on the vintner’s lower lip, eliciting a raw groan from the man. While kissing her roughly, Geralt slapped her hand away and dragged her to the mossy ground with him. Laying her on her back, he rucked up her skirts and pushed two fingers deep into her slick hole. Completely unused to the feeling, Emhyr tensed.

“Shh, love,” the vintner muttered against her lips, dragging his thumb over her clit until she relaxed. His mouth found her (sensitive, they realised) nipples, and suckled them gently, while his fingers kept twisting over and inside her, setting nerves on fire. With a hungry moan, she bucked her hips against his touch, and he chuckled lowly. Then, with one fast motion, he dragged her legs up and around his waist, grinding his erecting against her folds.

“Yes?” he whispered, his glowing blue eyes staring deeply into Myrah’s brown ones, and straight down into Emhyr’s shivering soul.

“Yes…” he sighed, spreading himself open wider as the tip of Geralt’s hard cock pressed against him, breaching – he had to breathe. Gentle kisses and a finger that returned to rub his clit distracted Emhyr enough to give in, and he moaned desperately when the other man began to fuck him with long, slow, measured strokes. Soon, their coupling became more urgent, and with a growl, the witcher ploughed deeper into him, faster into him, until he came with a full-body shudder.

“Myrah”, he gasped.

More, Emhyr thought, desperate clinging onto the pleasure that tingled in his lower body. He keened when Geralt pulled his spent cock out and lowered his mouth between the maid’s legs. Where his fingers had left off, his tongue began, and the fingers moved back to fuck into him. Suddenly feeling to tender he thought he was going to burst, Emhyr cried out, clenching on the fingers as he spasmed, once, and when the tongue and hand refused to let up, soon a second time, even harder. Dazedly, he looked down between his legs, where the witcher gently leapt up the juices that stuck to his folds, before wiping his chin and mouth on the fabric of the inner dress. Then he kissed him on the mouth, and Emhyr could taste Aine on Geralt’s lips. All kinds of emotions tumbling through his chest, he curled himself into the vintner’s open arms, closing his eyes.

Aine was gone.

Myrah was a lie that crumbled at a cough.

And Emhyr wished, to his own horror, that Geralt had moaned his name instead. Still enflamed with lust, he further wished to bury his cock inside the witcher’s impertinently grinning mouth.

Damn it all.

 

 

 


	6. An Unexpected Guest

More than three moon cycles had passed since their tryst in the woods, and they had sought each other out almost every night – and as privacy permitted, even during the day. Yet somehow Geralt felt that Myrah had never been more distant. There was a space inside her head she did not let him touch, and the more he got to know her, the more he minded.

While at first her beauty had caught his attention, he had soon began to realise that she was an excellent conversationalist, a witty commentator, and a ruthless Gwent player. She also possessed a sharp mind for accounts and trade, and Barnabas-Basil seemed a little perturbed when Geralt asked him to involve Myrah more in the administration of the estate.

“Is my lord dissatisfied with my service?” his major domo had asked in a hurt voice, after which Geralt rushed to put aside his worries. No, he was just worried that Myrah needed a bit more variety in her duties, and perhaps some tasks that let her use her intellect. The relieved and _knowing_ glint in Barnabas-Basil’s eyes had made the vintner blush, to the subtle amusement of his servant.

It was the eve before the yule celebration, and the servants were busy preparing a feast for the next day to celebrate the winter festival. Geralt had been setting up the tables in the new barn beside the servant quarters, when suddenly the front door of the main house was slammed and Myrah came running out. He called her name, and in the brief moments she needed to reach him, he could make out the absolute rage on her face.

Slap!

His ears were ringing just a little from the punch, while she brushed past him and walked swiftly towards the road. Blinking and holding his yaw, he stared after her completely dumbfounded. Then the door slammed a second time, and Ciri stepped out of the house.

Geralt sighed, torn between running after Myrah and greeting his daughter. Clearly, there had been some kind of misunderstanding. Given that Ciri was already standing in front of him, the choice was easy.

“What on earth happened just now?” the ash-blonde asked him, arms crossed, “And why is there a woman living in my room?”

“Her name is Myrah, and she,” he paused awkwardly, “is a maid in my employ.”

“A maid – honestly?” Ciri pulled a disapproving face.

“Well, a little more than that,” he acknowledged, and his daughter rolled her eyes, pursing her lips.

“You always had a thing for bossy women.”

Frowning, Geralt looked around, but Myrah was out of sight: “She is not as bossy as …”

“Hm-hm,” Ciri muttered under her breath, “And why did she look at me like she had seen a ghost, and then yelled at me to explain where I had been, as if I was an errant child?”

“Huh…” Geralt offered most helpfully.

“You told her about me, right?” Ciri considered after a moment, “So she probably thought…”

“No, I did not,” Geralt frowned, the added apologetically, “Hadn’t really gotten to that point. But I guess I should explain who you are to her now. Do you mind if I…?” he motioned into the direction Myrah had disappeared.

Ciri waved it off: “Should I put my stuff downstairs with you?”

“Nah,” Geralt shook his head, grinning self-consciously, “Bed upstairs has been unused for a while anyhow. I’ll just to talk to her and sort it out. - Good to have you here for yule,” he added.

Ciri huffed, shrugged, and went back into the house, while he set off to find Myrah. An angrily-stomping woman always left tracks to follow.

“Myrah?” he called her name, following the footsteps into the golden light of the setting sun. He had followed the trail for at least fifteen minutes, beyond the limits of the estate and further down towards the mill by the riverside. It was getting darker, colder, and harder to see, and he had not thought to bring a torch, not expecting his lover to have gone that far.

Switching to simple searching, he looked around the mill, calling her name ever so often. He had already thought that she had probably returned to the house, when he heard a faint sniffling sound from the upper floor of the ruin. There, huddled behind a few old crates, he found her.

“Myrah,” he said softly, crouching down beside her, and almost being punched a second time for his efforts, “Myrah, what in the name…”

“You lied to me,” she said in a tone of voice that chilled his bones, “You told me she was dead.” Rocking back and forth, she hugged her stomach.

“I – what?” the vintner asked dumbfounded, trying to comprehend what she was referring to. He had never told her about Ciri. Only Emhyr could have told her about his daughter. If he had ever lied to Myrah, it was a lie by omission.

“She did not want the emperor to know,” Geralt tried to explain, yet his heart clenched at the look of utter rage and despair Myrah levelled at him.

“Do you have _any idea_ , “she snarled at him, tears rolling from her accusing eyes, “what it did to m– him, to hear… to think,” she broke off, slamming a fist against his chest, and another, until the vintner caught her wrists.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt muttered, thinking back to that day in Vizima, when he had last seen the emperor alive, “I never wished for him to suffer, then, or – or in the end.”

Myrah moaned as if in physical pain, and he tried to cradle her close, but she pushed him away.

“You told him his child was dead, when…” she whispered, shaking her head, “when it was a lie. How could you lie about such a thing?”

Geralt swallowed in shame, sinking down against the wall next to Myrah: “I didn’t think he would let her go, if he knew, I didn’t think he could have let her go.”

There was no reply, just a choked sob. For a while, he pondered what he could possibly say.

“But he already let her go once before,” Myrah said faintly, bitterly, “did that never pass your mind when you made your decision?”

She was right, and with that realisation, Geralt felt horribly ashamed.

 

~*~

 

“If-if I had known this would matter so much to you, I would have told you earlier,” the vintner’s obnoxious voice cut through the darkness settling over the ruin of the mill. Emhyr was still trying to make sense of the storm of feelings rolling over him. He felt borderless and out of touch, swept away in the howling anger.

“She was his child…” he whispered, brokenly. “And whatever you may think of him, he loved her, wanted to give her something meaningful… and after all this time searching … hoping …” he lifted his head, dazedly glaring at the witcher, “you told me she was dead.”

The pair of blue eyes, grey as everything in the dark, blinked back at him in confusion.

“What do you mean”, the man asked wearily, “when you say I told _you_?”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "let her go once before" refers to 5th book, at Stygga


	7. The Emperor's Soul

It was time to end their little charade, Emhyr thought in fleeting regret. It had been surprisingly sweet while it lasted. In the dark falling over the mill, he gathered his errant feelings, and pushed them down.

“I was sitting in the carriage,” he began to recount indifferently, “when a large beast attacked the convoy and threw the coach onto its side. While we were trapped, it killed all the men outside, and must have left the scene before the usurper’s hounds caught up with us. They bashed in the roof – with axes – and dragged us out. Aine was unconscious, had injured her head when the coach flipped over. She was lying a few yards away, bleeding, on the dirty road.” He forced himself to continue.  “I was dragged onto my knees. They meant to decapitate me, when – when everything froze, and a man appeared.”

He broke off, staring into nothingness, hearing as the vintner shuffled. There was a pause.

“Who appeared?” Geralt asked roughly, his voice a mixture of barely restraint anger and dread.

“O’Dim.”

The moment he said it, the vintner hissed in exhale, clenching his fists: “Go on.”

“He offered me a deal. A wish for a soul. I wasn’t inclined to indulge him – but when he threatened Aine I did not have the heart to see her suffer”, he admitted his weakness, “I accepted, and as expected, the demon twisted my words, and used the wish against me.”

“What did you wish for?” he vintner asked hoarsely, drawing in air through the nose. Emhyr could hear him grit his teeth.

“I had asked him to take Aine to safety, but he insisted that wish was insufficient to rouse his interest. I followed his suggestion, out of morbid curiosity perhaps, and asked for more time to enjoy life – the miracle of life. But I did not shake hands with him, because he said that would make two souls, and I was not willing to pay that price.” He exhaled deeply. “But when he threatened to hurt her, I accepted the deal, on the condition that not a hair on Aine’s body be harmed. If he complied with that, I said I would play his game.”

With a cynical huff, he twisted his face away, unable to look the vintner in the eye: “As you can see, not a hair on her body was harmed when he took her soul away. And as he did so, I found myself looking through her eyes to watch those dogs chop my head off.”

He chuckled again, desperately: “It took quite a few hits with that axe to finally make it through the spine and tendons. Then they stole my insignia, and dumped my head in a vat – presents and proof for the bloede arse who ordered my murder. You know”, he let his head loll back towards Geralt, “I never wanted to die like my father, yet there I was – and you know, I realised the worst wasn’t dying that way – it was watching it happen, again, and not being able to do a thing.”

 

“Emhyr,” the vintner said into a long, tense silence that followed. It was not a question.

“Witcher,” he snorted, “or is it ‘vintner’ these days?”

Tiredly, Geralt shook his head and got up. With a dark scowl, he offered him a hand, which the mis-embodied emperor took.

“I really am sorry for letting you think she was dead,” the other man muttered later, once they had climbed down to the ground floor. Emhyr did not reply. Geralt helped him out of the dark building, and together they walked back towards the estate. The tension between them was almost crackling.

 “There is one more question I have,” the vintner mumbled, halting as they reached the treeline. Cold, hungry, emotionally exhausted, and still very annoyed, Emhyr put his hands on his hips, waiting.

“Did you,” Geralt began to stutter, “why, I mean, why did you sleep with me? Did you think I was going to abandon you if you didn’t respond to my advances?” He sounded hurt.

The emperor rolled his eyes with a huff. Of all the questions… He stomped off into the leafless vines, the vintner on his heels. When they came into view of the house, Geralt was still exuding an unmissable aura of livid wolf, badly concealing kicked puppy.

“Because I wanted to,” Emhyr grit out, and sped up her gait further – or would have – if the vintner had not easily held her back by the shoulder.

“You – wanted to?” the idiot asked, drawing his eyebrows together.

“Yes, I did,” she repeated, gruffly, caught between embarrassment and annoyance, “Is that a problem?”

The vintner blinked, and there was something almost like petulance in his eyes. “You lied to me as well,” the man pointed out unhelpfully.

Emhyr threw him a hard glare: “That hardly compares.”

“Does, too,” Geralt grumbled.

“Are you telling me you did not enjoy it?” he planned to distract. It worked. The vintner blushed deeply. “See?” He was about to whirl around and leave their awkward conversation in the vines behind, when Geralt once more caught him, this time by the hand.

“I” he broke off, staring at Emhyr with an unreadable face.

The emperor raised his eyebrow impatiently.

“You wore the hat, and you – you winked at me in the restaurant. And,” he cleared his throat, “uh, you enjoyed it too, didn’t you?”

Emhyr rolled his eyes at the infantile behaviour: “Yes, I rather did enjoy myself,” he said pointedly, pushing his face closer to the vintner to scare him off. Somehow, his strategy misfired when Geralt’s lips almost brushed his.

“I enjoyed more than just the sex,” the vintner admitted softly, voice strangely raw. Emhyr blinked, and had to resist the impulse to rest his forehead against Geralt’s thick skull. The cool evening breeze flowed around them, brushing a few tendrils of Emhyr’s hair into the vintner’s face.

“We’ll need to go back soon, or they’ll send out a search party,” Geralt muttered eventually, and Emhyr nodded haltingly, watching the man turn away.

“What do you want to tell Ciri?” the vintner asked on their way back, still a good few yards from the house.

Emhyr sighed: “She thinks I’m the maid?”

“Whom I am taking advantage of, yes,” Geralt added with a faint trace of humour, “though she has already pegged you for a bossy one.”

Sharing the fragile levity of the moment, Emhyr’s face turned serious soon: “You should tell her the truth sooner rather than later – or never at all – anything else can only make it worse.”

Geralt nodded, and they looked at each other in trepidation.

“Are you telling me you are scared of a girl?” Emhyr joked roughly.

“I just happen to know her temper and sword skills rather well,” Geralt admitted, holding open the front door for him.

 

~*~

 

“Are you kidding me?” she asked, her forehead wrinkled, narrow-eyed. Her sharp green gaze wandered between the two people sitting in her room; one perched on the side of the desk, the other standing by the window with her (his?) arms crossed.

“It’s really quite unbelievable, I know…” Geralt began to explain, but broke off when she looked at him. Emhyr began to see why his daughter’s ire compelled the witcher’s caution.

“Unbelievable – which part? That a powerful magical creature cursed my father into a woman’s body? Hardly! That you had nothing better to do than fuck? Ugh!” Ciri threw up her hands.

“In Geralt’s defence, he was not aware of my identity until very recently,” Emhyr dared to intrude on their staring match. Ciri snorted deeply, throwing him a dirty glance.

“You really made him think you were a pretty lady?” his daughter asked, eyebrow raised.

Emhyr winced, but nodded: “I felt it would enrich my cover to be taken for his illicit lover, given that I could not possibly pass as a maid.”

“Huh,” both Geralt and Ciri said darkly, in unison. Emhyr suspected he would come to regret his honesty.

“It remains imperative to my well-being, and by proximity yours, to keep my identity absolutely confidential,” he explained, folding his hands behind his back, and pacing towards the bed. In the corner of his eye, he could see Geralt and Ciri exchanging a series of gestures and faces. He decided not to interrupt their quiet exchange, and waited impatiently for whatever outcome would emerge.

“He is my guest, and in need of protection” Geralt eventually said, in a low, determined voice.

It stung Emhyr when Ciri shook her head in weary disbelief, not even bothering to address him. He had not expected a warm welcome, certainly, but her frosty distain left him feeling awkwardly out-of-place.

“I would not want to interfere,” the ash-blonde said bitterly, and upon Geralt’s falling face, Emhyr realised intervention was necessary, before this dynamic spilled out of control.

“If you must blame someone, blame me. Geralt has been nothing but kind to somebody he took for an innocent woman in need,” he addressed her, “Do not feel unwelcome on my behalf – I shall remove myself from your presence in just a moment. But I believe Geralt deserves for you to listen to him, rather than judge outright. Perhaps tomorrow, when all tempers have had opportunity to cool.”

And with that, he left them standing, and went downstairs. Realising there was no spare place to sleep inside the house, he sat himself down at the dinner table. Maybe Geralt could find a blanket for him, and he’d sleep in the hay with Roach. In fact, he did not wait long until the stairs creaked under the heavy footsteps of the vintner. His shoulders were slumped as he walked past the table towards his bedroom door.

“Are you coming?” Geralt asked gruffly, and Emhyr swallowed. Tentatively, he got up and joined the vintner in his chamber.

 

 

 


	8. A Fool's Desire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and subscriptions! I hope you all enjoy this chapter. As we are slowly coming to a turning point in the story, I'd love to hear what you think.

“Am I still welcome here, then, if only for the night?” he probed in mild surprise, lingering by the door that was falling shut in his back.

Geralt, face shrouded in shadow, shook his head with a sigh. He began to methodically strip down, back turned to Emhyr. Averting his gaze to do the same, Emhyr undid the buttons of his new green dress, and drew the fabric over his head, tidily folding it over the chair. He put one foot on the seat, rolling down the long stocking, then the other. When the emperor without empire tried to undo the laces in the back of his silky fishbone bodice, he found that the knot had become tangled. He huffed in frustration, fumbling with the ties, and eventually the vintner’s large hands drew his away, and began to undo the laces. Emhyr would have expected them to stop there in their previous routines. But once the bodice slipped around his waist and was put aside, Geralt’s hands wandered up into his hair, gently picking out the pins. He let him, holding his breath, until the long dark tresses tumbled over his shoulders. Further assistance was not required. Yet Geralt remained standing, so close behind him that Emyhr could feel him exhale against his skin. He held his breath.

Abruptly the vintner stepped away. Turning over his shoulder, Emhyr got a view of the broad, scarred back, before the man – naked as he had been born – climbed into his bed and settled on the far side. The man was always warm, a veritable furnace. Giving himself a nudge, Emhyr joined the vintner in bed. Blowing out the candle, he curled into the pillows, and closed his eyes.

Half a sleepless eternity later, Geralt’s fingertip stroked down his clothed spine.

“What?” he asked, still painfully awake.

“Call me a complete fool, but…” the vintner broke off, fingertips still brushing gently over Emhyr’s hip.

“But?” the emperor replied incredulously, rolling over to face the man. It was utterly dark.

Sheets rustled and the mattress dipped.

“Geralt”, he whispered warily, unsure where this was going.

“I can’t help wanting you…” the vintner murmured, climbing on top of him. In the dark, he pressed their foreheads together. Unable to see, Emhyr sought to find the candle and matches. But as his movement jostled the bed, the vintner’s heavy erection brushed his thigh. The candle was forgotten.

“I should be angry with you,” Geralt groaned, “I AM angry with you, furious in fact, and _all_ ,” he hissed into Emhyr’s neck, “I can think about is how much I want to bend you over, spank your lovely arse for being a complete jerk, and fuck you silly afterwards.”

Something about that fantasy made Emhyr twitch: “Really?” he asked in a light, sardonic voice.

“Yes, really!” Geralt growled, rolling himself back onto his back with a frustrated groan.

Perhaps it was time to give them a little light after all. Once Emhyr had lit the candle, he turned around to regard the vintner. The man was stretched out on his back, mouth pulled into an angry line below the arm that was thrown over his eyes. Gazing down his exposed chest, Emhyr found that his hard cock was rather begging for attention. With a sly look, he crawled closer on all fours, and lowered his face to Geralt’s ear.

“And if I was amenable to indulge that particular desire of yours?” he whispered with a smirk.

The arm moved an inch, and Geralt stared at him from below the limb: “Are you kidding me?”

“No,” Emhyr wrinkled his nose a little, “you clearly are upset with me, for not entirely unfathomable reasons, and if it eases your conscience to hit me a little before you indulge your,” he sniffed, “obviously rather _urgent_ carnal desires, be my guest – on this occasion, strictly by my permission. Do we understand each other?”

He lifted an eyebrow, and Geralt swallowed. Then the man nodded, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Emhyr spread out on his front, within easy reach, face bedded on his arms. Geralt looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then gave his butt a deft caress, before he rucked up the cotton dress up to his chest.

“Tell me if I hit too hard,” he murmured. Then, without further warning, his hand came down sharply on the emperor’s hind cheek. And again. Emhyr had barely enough time to breathe in deeply and brace himself before another two slaps hit his skin. The vintner was not delicate in how he went about his business, and physically much stronger than any previous partner with whom Emhyr had ever indulged in such an activity. Another few heartbeats in, and Emhyr wondered what devil had ridden him to permit the act, just in time for another blow to land. His skin was on fire, and as he breathed through the openhanded slaps, too prideful to retreat, a certain clarity filled his mind. Naked, on his belly, arse reddening for sure, he felt strangely at peace. Eventually, the spanking stopped. Focussing on his shallow breath, Emhyr vaguely felt the bed dip. Then the cool of some ointment was spread over his sensitised skin. It burned just a little, and he squinted, wriggling his behind to evade the hand.

“Hold still,” the vintner huffed, and gently gave his thigh another slap.

“Enough…” Emhyr rasped, slowly rolling onto his side. The movement brought his face rather close to Geralt’s leaking erection, and he snorted: “Like to see me subdued, is that it?”

The vintner grinned mischievously: “You do blush rather prettily, your Majesty,” he hinted, winking down at Emhyr’s abused rear. The emperor levelled him with a scathing stare, to which Geralt just shrugged.

“Your impertinence and lack of decorum have remained in impeccable shape since you last graced my throne room,” Emhyr let him know, wincing as he moved.

“I’ll even kiss it better, darling,” Geralt replied smugly, and with another wink bent his head between the emperor’s legs, where he applied his uncouth mouth quite thoroughly. A pity really, Emhyr thought as his breath hitched, that the man ever used his mouth for anything else. Pleasantly relaxed after an orgasm or three, Emyhr was even amenable to taking the vintner’s length into his mouth. He licked and sucked the engorged flesh with shameful gusto. Stopping before it was too late, they finished their play in a missionary position with the vintner ploughing the emperor like a man possessed.

“I really should be angry with you…” Geralt yawned, well-spent and slumped heavily on top of him. Emhyr just hummed in response, legs still curled around his back, and nose snuggled into the vintner’s hair. Then Geralt moved, and placed a sloppy wet kiss onto his cheek, before rolling onto the side. A little bit of shuffling and grumbling later, Geralt had spooned himself against his back like a personal furnace, and Emhyr was listening to the other man’s rapid heartbeat steadily slowing into a gentle snore.

It was a rather cute, wheezy snore.

He closed his eyes in misery. This was pure madness. Neither a snore nor that particular witcher-turned-vintner should ever endear him. Annoying, a pain in the neck – a thorn in his side… he really should not have been thinking about penetrative metaphors right then. His folds and inner thighs were still coated in the man’s come, and both his vagina and behind were sore from allowing the man to enact his fantasies.

Absolute, incomprehensible madness! He briefly decided to blame Aine’s brain, but to his knowledge Aine had never done anything this ludicrous in her life. If the brain was innocent, something else had to be the culprit – something that had slipped his careful control. And there were only two things an emperor could not control: his time and his heart.

Clearly, O’Dim – a master of time – was to be blamed for his whole predicament. Which left the open question if their deal had been fulfilled, or if – indeed – he should expect the demon to return and demand a second soul. Clearly, the witcher had encountered O’Dim before. Emhyr resolved to ask him in the morning how to best get rid of the menace.

 

 

 


	9. In the Open

He had risen early in the morning to get the days’ worth of work done, leaving Myrah to slumber. After the hitch last evening, everything had gone surprisingly smoothly to his mind, so he was a little confused by the stern glances his cook kept sending all day. Marlene had just brought him a freshly ironed pair of breeches for the feast, when he made use of the moment of privacy.

“What did I do?” he asked, before she could skewer him some more with her eyes.

Marlene cleared her throat: “I could not help but overhear the quarrel between Madame Myrah and Cirilla, when your daughter arrived.”

“And?” Geralt huffed, discomfited.

“Is it true that Ciri’s family thought she was dead?” Marlene shook her head, “I find it hard to believe you would tell such a cruel lie…”

Geralt startled. His staff had never been informed about Ciri’s past and heritage. All they knew was that Geralt had had a hand in raising her. “I don’t know what you heard, but it is true. There were good reasons for this, and we resolved the matter last night.”

“Myrah and Ciri _are_ related then?” Marlene asked with narrowed eyes, and Geralt cursed himself for revealing anything.

“Yes,” he admitted, unwilling to say more. A stunned expression crossed Marlene’s face.

“Then it makes doubly sense that the poor woman was so upset,” his cook said with a soft sigh. At Geralt’s uncomprehending expression, her face changed to exasperation: “Honestly, boy, haven’t you realised it yet?”

He had no idea what she was alluding to.

“She has not bled since she is here,” Marlene said pointedly and left him alone, obviously expecting the vintner to understand.

The coin dropped like an avalanche.

“W-what?” Geralt asked into the empty hall, half-dressed for the evening. Quickly tucking his shirt into his trousers, and tying a colourful sash around his waist, he dragged on his boots - jumping on the other leg - and ran outside.

In the barn, the tables were set and laden with freshly cooked food. All servants employed on the estate were mingling about, and three travelling bards had started to play up a tune. Among the laughing and dancing people he struggled to find Myrah. Then, suddenly, he spotted her hat. Squeezing through a gaggle of maids, who complained as he brushed past, he stumbled to a halt behind her.

“Myrah?” he asked uncertainly.

She turned around, and for a second he forgot that it was Emhyr inside that body. She was simply so beautiful: radiant skin, large chocolate eyes, a thin neck around which her dark hair curled. The wide neckline of the red dress hugged her breasts, pushed up by the bodice he knew to rest beneath the ruby silks and open wool cape. The moment his eyes slid down to her slim waist, he worried that the laces sat too tightly, that they might harm… He swallowed.

“Geralt?” she asked, walking towards him with the wide skirts swaying around her legs.

His heart beating somewhere in his throat, he gazed speechlessly into her questioning face. She repeated his name, but he simply could not say anything. Witchers were sterile, they could never have… Unable to verbalise his feelings, he kissed her. Softly, reverently.

A loud cough and Myrah’s stunned face brought him back to reality. Several dozens of people were staring at him, faces ranging from open mouths and wide eyes to knowledgeable smirks. While gossip broke out quickly, Myrah dragged him away. On their path to the vine cellars they came past Ciri, who threw him a look of disbelieving disgust.

“What on earth is the meaning of this?” Myrah – no – Emhyr rounded on him, the moment their conversation was shielded from nosy ears.

Geralt struggled to explain himself, still feeling like he was walking on puffy clouds and sunshine.

“Geralt!” Emhyr snapped, arms folded over his chest.

Geralt worried: “You should try to stay calm, I think. It’s not good to be upset in your condition.”

It had been the wrong things to say apparently. Emhyr’s face, as far as he could possibly tell in the dim light, had gotten even more upset.

“Have I missed the part where our illicit liaison has somehow become licit, or is shaming me in public your choice of revenge for yesterday's revelations? I must admit that after helping yourself to my body last night, I expected a continuation of your civility, if not your personal regard. I see now that I completely underestimated your capacity for callousness.” Emhyr’s enraged face pressed close to Geralt’s. “And why the hell should I stay calm about this?”

Geralt stared at him, clearly sensing that some part of their communication had gone horribly awry.

“What do you mean by callousness?” he asked slowly, while it dawned on him. He had kissed a woman, who was supposedly his maid and secret lover, in full public. He acknowledged that this would have been unwise at some point, but surely the dynamic had long carried them past such pretences? It was not as if the nature of their relation could possibly stay a secret much longer, even to the least interested observer.

“I was just…” crestfallen, he struggled to express his sudden joy. Could it be that Marlene was wrong? And what if Aine had already been…

“But you have – have you not…” he broke off under Emhyr’s irate stare.

“What have I – have I not….?” His lover repeated his stutters pointedly, pressing his mouth into a firm line as he finished.

“Marlene thought you were with child,” the truth blundered from his lips, and Emhyr froze. His forehead furrowed in disbelief, then his eyes widened comically.

“Witchers are sterile…” he whispered faintly.

“Not a witcher anymore,” Geralt voiced roughly, biting his lips, “took an antidote to the mutations. All uh, blue eyed and human now.” He had the grace to look ashamed. “I thought a concubine knew how to take care of herself…” Clearly, there had been even more miscommunication.

Emhyr’s shoulders slumped and he covered his face with his hands. Then he turned his back and took a few further steps into the dark. Geralt was left standing near the exit stairwell, awkwardly shifting his weight in the foreboding silence. Then Emhyr’s shoulders began to shake, and a light chuckling filled the room. It grew increasingly shrill and by the time Geralt had wrapped his arms around him, Emhyr was doubling over. Holding him close, Geralt truly could not tell if he was laughing or sobbing. After a few minutes, Emhyr fell silent again. He did not pull away.

“I don’t even know if it is true,” the emperor admitted into the shirt of the vintner, helplessly shrugging his shoulders.

“Regis will be able to tell,” Geralt said with certainty, trying to cover his anxiety and hopefulness, “I am expecting him tonight. Come,” he took his hand and led him out of the cellar. On the last stairs Emhyr slowed, surreptitiously wiping his face.

“This has not resolved what we are going to tell out there,” the deposed emperor pointed out in a wary voice.

Geralt considered the fact, finally understanding where Emhyr’s anger and worried had hailed from. He swallowed: “They already knew anyhow…”

Emhyr swallowed, and bit his lips as if to keep himself from saying something. Then he just nodded weakly, and left the cellar ahead of him. And people stared – all evening. Geralt did not need enhanced senses to hear them talk behind his back. Some even pointed – though they pointed less at him, and more at her. Beautiful and alone, Myrah sat at the head table, poking at her food, while Geralt was caught up in hosting the feast and making conversation with various attendees. When Regis made his appearance later in the evening, Geralt immediately pulled him aside to explain the conundrum. Unwilling to delay the diagnosis in order to explain the whole story, he picked up from the truths of Aine’s appearance in his house. The vintner had already shared that part with the vampire when he had picked up Myrah’s medicine at the crypt. Here and now, he hastily told Regis the gist of the issue, excluding Emhyr’s real identity. When Geralt had finished, Regis regarded him with a firm, rather disapproving look.

“So you think your maid might be pregnant, and she herself is not sure? I will see what I can find out,” he said in a clipped tone, and made his way over to the tables. Geralt watched from the distance as the vampire drew out a chair next to Myrah. They engaged in light conversation, though Regis gentle friendliness did not seem to ease the tension in Myrah’s posture. Anxiously, Geralt waited for Regis to return to him. When he finally did, his friend’s face was serious.

“Walk with me?” the vampire offered, nodding to the door. Geralt followed him into the vines until they were out of earshot.

“And?” he asked anxiously.

“She is with child. I would estimate, by the frequency of the foetus’ heartbeat, approximately three months along.” Regis’ stern face softened as he regarded the vintner. Overwhelmed by his feelings, Geralt sat down heavily on the cold ground, staring into his empty hands. After a moment, Regis crouched beside him.

“I gather the child must be yours?” the vampire inquired softly.

Unable to clear the fullness in his throat, Geralt nodded, shyly allowing his friend to see his tear-streaked face. It took him a while to find his voice.

“I-I never thought I could…” he whispered roughly, “being a witcher, I – since I had Ciri, perhaps even before, but I couldn’t tell as obviously, I always wanted – you know, just looking at all those normal people, I …” he chocked, burying his face in his hands.

He felt how Regis wrapped his arm around his shoulders, silently keeping him company.

When he had taken Moreau’s potions, he had buried the spring of hope deep inside himself. He had never told anyone why he had left the witcher powers behind, offering them a superficial account of wanting to die in a bed, not a ditch. But becoming a human, in the depth of his soul, had always been about more than that. Then fate had done the unexpected, and granted his wishes – in the most bizarre way.

“I need to tell him,” Geralt realised, and pushed himself off the ground.

Regis rose gracefully next to him: “I believe the future mother should be informed.”

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Geralt tumbled over his feet and words, then stopped: “Regis?”

“Yes, Geralt?” his old friend said, bemusedly shaking his head.

“What do I do? I mean, with becoming a-a father and everything?”

Regis laughed: “You did not do too badly with Ciri, did you?”

Geralt shook his head no.

“Then I would not worry about it too much. One thing after another – which brings me back to something: What are your plans for Myrah?” At Geralt’s complex look, the vampire frowned. “Surely it must be clear to you that among humans and their morals, it is unkind to leave her with an illegitimate child? Or is she nothing but a vessel for you?”

“Of course not!” the vintner protested, “But it’s more complicated than that.”

“So complicated that you think it wrong to do the right thing?” the vampire asked gently after a moment of silence. Without expecting an answer, he clapped Geralt on the back once more. “I trust your judgment, Geralt, and your integrity. Think about it. As for tonight, I will return to the feast and take the opportunity to talk to Marlene. I must get her recipe for the apricot liqueur. It’s divine.”

Left alone by himself, Geralt shivered – more in anticipation than from any cold – and slowly made his way back to the barn. He could not find Myrah among the people present. Spotting Barnabas-Basil near the doors, he asked after the woman and was pointed into the direction of the stream. Walking around the porch, he searched the area by the pool, and found her sitting on the stone, alone in the cold.

“Myrah,” he called, careful not to give the man’s identity away.

Emhyr did not turn. Softly, Geralt stepped over and crouched next to him. His heart beating wildly, he took his unconventional companion’s cold hands into his.

“So tell me already!” Emhyr snapped in a muted voice, laced with an unrestrained, anxious tone very unlike him.

“We are going to have a child,” Geralt said in lasting wonder.

The hands covered in his tensed. Emhyr nodded distantly. Unsure how to proceed, Geralt kissed his knuckles.

“I want this child,” he admitted his heart’s deepest desire, “so very much.”

Emhyr did not respond at first, and with the growing silence, Geralt’s hope began to wilt.

“I see,” he whispered eventually, making to stand. His heart jumped when Emhyr kept holding onto his hand. “Are you ok?” he mumbled, daring to reach out and caress his hand over the other’s hair.

“Terrified,” Emhyr whispered, so lowly Geralt could barely make out his voice.

Gently, Geralt knelt down next to him again: “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” He was not sure whether he promised it to the man or his unborn child. It did not matter. Slowly leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Emhyr’s flat belly.

“How can you be so sure this is a good thing?” the emperor’s oddly tentative voice reached his ear, and Geralt stopped his attentions to truly listen, “What if…” Emhyr shrugged vaguely, revealing his helplessness.

Geralt held him by the hands, giving him a long, what he hoped to be earnest, look: “I raised a child of yours before, grew to love her more than anything else – until now,” he pointedly looked down between them, “There’s not a reason in the world I can see why I wouldn’t love this one just as much.”

Emhyr stared away, swallowing: “And what if history repeats itself, _and I end up_ _destroying everything I love_?” The last words were spoken so softly Geralt could barely make them out.

“Won’t let you,” Geralt promised against their joined hands. The he swallowed hard: “I’ll have your back, forever, if that’s what you want.”

Staring at him with a questioning expression, Emhyr’s eyes widened in growing comprehension, and Geralt nodded carefully.

“Can even get you a ring, if you want that kind of thing,” he coughed in embarrassment.

 

~*~

 

Emhyr exhaled with a huff, chuckling softly: “Let me think on it.”

It was sheer madness. But as a woman without possessions or other people to lean on – what choice did he have, really? The stares all evening had reminded him of his position all too well.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am assuming a more traditional cultural setting here, in which the pressures to get married, irrespective of feelings, would be a lot higher than in many cultures today.


	10. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elven month Blathe: ~ May-June

_Five months later…_

 

 

“Geralt?” a familiar voice rang up from the road, and the vintner stuck his head over the fresh green vines he had been inspecting for pests. “There you are! Come over here and give me a hug, old man.”

“Lambert,” he smiled and went to greet his brother, “It’s good to see you.”

Together they walked up to the house, where Keira Metz was already chatting with Ciri. Eyes gleaming, his daughter teleported herself on top of the witcher, and wrestled Lambert to the ground. Ignoring their laughter, Geralt nodded to Keira and joined her on the porch for a cup of wine.

“We arrived early for another contract,” the sorceress informed him, “but apart from getting the best information from you, Lambert also felt you might want some brotherly company before the big day.”

“Can always use that,” Geralt admitted, smiling softly.

Keira rolled her eyes: “So are you going to acquaint us with the mysterious new lady of the house, or do I need to introduce myself?”

“I’ll see if my lady is busy,” he joked and went to find Myrah. Knowing Emhyr’s temper of late, he had no idea if he would be welcomed with kisses or thrown tableware. Only two weeks ago, the tailor had paid them a second visit to let out all the day dresses he had previously made - again. Measurements had also been taken for one new addition to the wardrobe.

“Keira and Lambert are here, they want to meet you,” Geralt said between kisses (thankfully), alternating between Myrah’s soft lips and the noticeable bump to her middle.

“Meeting the family, huh?” Emhyr asked sardonically, but his face was relaxed and warm.

Together, they went outside. Lambert and Ciri had finished their scuffle, and had sat down in the morning sun of Blathe, which already bestowed them rather warm temperatures. Introductions had just been made, when a loud whistle came up the road, followed by Eskel on Scorpion. One after another, more old friends came into view: Zoltan, Dandelion, Damien, Regis. Even Roche had gotten time off from his duties in Vizima, to Geralt’s surprise.

“If the lady doesn’t mind,” Lambert announced with gravitas, “we lads would like to borrow the groom for the night. We even promise to return him on the morrow, though we cannot guarantee the shape.”

To Geralt’s relief, Emhyr just snorted and told him to better sober up before he graced the doorstep again. Roach was saddled, and Geralt stuffed into his old witcher gear, sans the swords, before they took off. At the Cockatrice Inn, they drank the first few rounds, together with lunch.

“The thing is this,” Lambert announced, “we have heard of a great number of perils that endanger the drunkenness of Toussaint – they must be resolved so that the people, including us, can get pissed in peace. Here!”

He put a brailer and a stick in front of Geralt. Under the laughter of all, the witcher was accompanied to a boat and set to free the river from a plague of bottle fish. A dozen and one bottles had been dumped in the Sansretour, anchored with rocks. The lads had formed two teams on two boats, each trying to collect as many bottles as possible. Armed with brailers and sticks, the exercise had eventually ended with Eskel and Roche heaving the vintner into the water with a big splash. That had not stopped him from collecting the three bottles that put his team in the lead. The bottles, all full of the best spirits, would not survive the day.

Mindful of his ‘old man sickliness’, as Lambert put it unceremoniously, the lads then ‘borrowed’ some dry clothes from a line near the Coronata vineyard, where they had a tasting of the produce. Gait not quite steady anymore, they then raced the horses all the way over Plegmund’s bridge in pursuit of the Werehare of Beauclair. Once caught, Palmerin (and his faux ears) joined them for the rest of the evening, which involved having another tasting at Castel Ravello, together with dinner. That was where the day ended, at least in Geralt’s memory - albeit they must have somehow made it to the port of Beauclair that night, for that was where Geralt woke up the next morning with a thundering headache and to the sounds of Vernon Roche puking up his guts.

“Men our age simply aren’t built for this anymore,” the Temerian groaned, slumping over the other side of the bed in which Geralt was lying, legs thrown over a snoring Zoltan, who had curled up at the foot end. With slight confusion, Geralt realised that Roche’s formerly blue uniform was splattered in bright pink. Examining the situation closer, he discovered that Zoltan’s skin, hair, and clothes had similarly acquired a yellow tint, speckled with green. Crawling downstairs, the vintner found the rest of his companions in similar shape and colourfulness, except Eskel, Damien, and Regis. The latter appeared after a moment, cheerful, cleanly dressed, and not the least bit affected, offering a round of his hangover cure. It took them all morning, and several randomly distributed bits of memory, to locate Eskel and Damien. Eventually they found them snoring between the vats of the colour merchant, doused in black and blue. The lads decided to draw a few red hearts all over their clothes, leaving them to sleep off their obvious intoxication.

Geralt’s head had cleared mostly by the time they sat down for a late breakfast at the local inn, when Lambert began to pat his pockets.

“Lambert?” Geralt asked warily.

“It’s that xenovox from Keira, just a – yes, dear?” he spoke into the small magical artefact he had finally located in his pocket, “Yes, of course. No, he is fine. Yes, we’ll return him soon – he may need a bath. No. Yes. Warm water would be nice. I’ll tell him. Ok. Ah, yes, say hello to everyone. Yes. I love you, too. Bye. Yes. Bye-bye.”

“The girls are going into town for the day, but they are leaving the pool hot for us.” Lambert filled them in.

“The girls?” Geralt wondered, slightly worried.

 

~*~

 

“You must be jesting!” Emyhr said to Ciri, whose eyes just sparkled smugly. Determinedly, he wrapped his arms around his belly and planted his feet more firmly into the ground.

“That attitude won’t do, and we would not want to rouse suspicion, would we?” his impertinent daughter smiled devilishly. The vintner clearly had been a bad influence on her.

In the bedroom to where he had fled, Emhyr was cornered. Outside the door, a whole range of women Geralt had _somehow_ _acquainted_ were waiting to celebrate his last day as a ‘maiden’. He snorted deeply.

“See it as a unique opportunity to learn about the minds of powerful women, who might share information they never would allow a man, muss less an emperor, to hear?” Ciri suggested, and he accepted the thin excuse to cave with dignity.

“Fine,” he hissed through gritted teeth, and followed his daughter into the hall. Assembled there, he saw the League of Terror, including several enemies he would have had executed on sight – if he had still been the emperor of Nilfgaard, and not a rather pregnant ‘maiden’, soon to be married to one of the greatest skirt-chasers in recent history. (For Geralt’s sake, Emhyr hoped it was history.)

“She must be a shy thing,” Triss Merigold said in a disgustingly sweet voice while he quietly opened the bedroom door.

“To be fair, we are a little intimidating,” Yennefer of Vengerberg replied, picking at her black and white dress, back turned to him.

“Shh, there she is!” shushed a red-headed woman with a rod of Asclepius dangling on her necklace.

Head held high, Emhyr stepped out to greet those present, but Ciri intervened before he could say much: “This is Myrah everyone, Myrah,” Ciri giggled a little, “These are Triss, Yennefer, Philippa, and you already know Keira. Shani lectures medicine in Oxenfurt and worked as a field surgeon; this is Ves, she is a lieutenant of the Temerian Blue Stripes, and well, no need to introduce myself.”

In that moment, Marlene entered to serve a round of sparkling wine, with an extra glass of grape juice for Myrah.

“Shall we get going?” Keira – apparently the leader of the league – asked into the round, once glasses had been emptied. With assenting nods and a cloud of chatter, the women moved outside, where two carriages were waiting for them. Emhyr got squeezed into the first, together with Keira, Philippa, and Ves. To his partial relief, the lieutenant looked as awkward as he felt. Their careful conversation turned to tales of the witcher during the second war, a topic that allowed Emhyr to learn more about the man without risking to give away anything about himself. Talking about the memories the other women had of Geralt, to his dubious pleasure, became a recurring theme for the day.

“They really killed King Henselt?” Emhyr allowed herself to ask Ves much later, exploiting his own prescribed sobriety in the company of increasingly tipsy women. So far, only half of them had dared to ask to touch his bump, which he had steadfastly refused. His resolve had crumbled more quickly when it came to the activities that apparently comprised an afternoon among _lady friends_. Now, mellowed by the warm water in a private room of Beauclair’s finest bathhouse, he actually found himself _relaxing_ in the presence of several powerful sorceresses. Maybe it was the fact that they were all naked, well-fed, and getting their necks and feet massaged.

“Well, kind of,” the lieutenant admitted, reclining in the steaming bath.

“Not the first to bond over a good regicide”, Philippa laughed, and the other sorceresses chuckled, even though they seemed a little embarrassed.

“Well, Demawend was a mistake in retrospect,” Keira offered, “but Radovid is hardly a loss. We should thank Geralt for getting rid of Dijkstra, too, or do you disagree, Phil?”

“Hm, Sigi was a darling once, but,” she shrugged, “my tastes run elsewhere these days. I have to admit I’d be surprised if Geralt did not have a hand in Emhyr’s tragic demise as well. On that topic, I do must say, honey,” she gazed straight at Myrah, “that you are a waste on that witcher.”

Emhyr did not know what to say. The situation was too surreal. He would need to keep an eye out for the unpleasantly perceptive sorceress, just in case.

“Don’t make her uncomfortable,” Triss admonished, offering Myrah another plate of fruit covered in chocolate, “though some of us, uh, are certainly surprised he finally found somebody to, uh, settle with.”

“It was not exactly planned”, Myrah admitted, as if her shape had not already revealed the obvious.

The other women regarded him with mixed expressions of sympathy. What struck him was the sad look in the eyes of Yennefer of Vengerberg.

“I think as long as you are content with him, it will go well,” the raven-haired sorceress said, to the obvious surprise of some present. Giving in to the apparent need for explanation, she added: “Geralt never said anything, but it was clear from the way he doted on Ciri that he loved children. That is why he took Moreau’s potions to reverse the mutations – so” she looked at Myrah, who suddenly sat very still, “I think this will make him very happy, and I would not worry about all the skirt-chasing he did in the past, because for once,” her voice faltered a little, “a woman can actually give him what he wants the most – a family.”

The sorceress raised her glass to Myrah, and in a sudden sombre silence, so did the others. Only Ciri did not drink, gazing at Emyhr with a thoughtful face.

“He has always been reliable as a friend,” Ves pointed out, and everyone nodded thoughtfully.

“And it’s not like we never left _him_ ,” Shani added.

“In all fairness, he _is_ a magnificent lover,” Keira sighed wistfully with a role of her eyes, whereupon Ciri put her hands over her ears and began to hum an off-key melody.

“And then there is the fact that he always liked to be pussywhipped,” Triss added with a wink to Myrah, which resulted in a round of giggles. Emhyr smiled very softly at that, choosing not to comment.

“I think it’s time to get dry, ladies,” Ciri threw in, rising from the pool, still humming with determination, “I’m getting all wrinkly.”

 

~*~

 

When Emhyr returned home early that evening, smelling like a perfume store and a stomach full of sweet nibbles, he startled to find Geralt asleep on the bed.

“Are you awake?” he asked the vintner, who grunted in vague affirmation, “Geralt, why are you covered in all colours of the rainbow?”

 “Ask the lads, darling” the man answered without opening his eyes.

Emhyr frowned deeply, pursing his lips: “Henselt _and_ Radovid, _darling_?” he inquired in a saccharine voice.

“How’d you know?” Geralt blinked suddenly, perceiving his fiancé’s smug grin with wide eyes.

Emhyr shrugged innocently, swiping his fingertip over Geralt’s skin and perusing the colour that stuck to the digit: “Ask the girls.”

 

 

 


	11. The Yoke of Time

“I do”, he said, more softly than he had intended. Emotions were thick in his throat. Emhyr looked breath-taking in the flowing wine-coloured gown, set off with golden embroidery. Taking his newly wedded spouse into his arms to kiss, he felt the babe kicking where their stomachs touched. Under the cheers of his friends, he guided his companion outside the temple, steadfastly ignoring the bright splotches of colour some rascals had left on the monument of Lebioda a few nights ago. A carriage brought them back to the estate, which had been decorated with flower garlands in their absence.

It was still early that night when Emhyr grew tired, not unexpectedly. The last weeks of the pregnancy were ahead of him, the child expected to come around midsummer. Under the cajoling of their guests, they left the feast and disappeared into the house.

“What a day,” the vintner said, lying back on the far side of the bed with his arms crossed below his head. Emhyr was laying on his side, with a set of pillows stuffed around various curves to make him comfortable.

“Memorable in its sheer unlikelihood,” the deposed emperor huffed, extending a hand to caress over the vintner’s elbow. After a shared grin and a comfortable pause he added: “I never thought I would get married again.”

“Me neither – well, married at all.” Geralt offered. He blinked, extending a hand to lace their fingers together. The golden bands of marriage gleamed in the candlelight.

“Do you miss Pavetta?”

Emhyr frowned, pondering the question: “I think I missed her in the beginning, simply for the absence of something I had taken for granted, gotten used to. While I cared for her, and I know that she loved me, we … the differences between us were hard to bridge from day to day. Age, experiences. Once I had left the restrictions the curse behind, Cintra became a cage in which I was more and more acting the part, wearing a mask, it … love wilts under such conditions, I think. And later? I remember her more in terms of guilt. I was unwilling to face the risks of my endeavours, for those around me, and while I deserved to pay the price – they did not.”

“Did you … ever regret taking back the crown?” Geralt asked, caressing his thumb over Emhyr’s hand.

“Not completely, no. But I have come to greatly regret aspects of how it was done, and to what further acts it drove me. Ciri – Ciri’s fate is foremost among all those regrets.” Emhyr swallowed, shifting on his pillows. His face took on a profound look of sadness, and Geralt put a chaste kiss to his knuckles.

“She is stubborn, but I think she is slowly…”

“Coming around to accept my presence? You have not given her much choice.” Emhyr’s tone sharped marginally. “But my impression is that she… is becoming more open to judge me for my current actions, rather than my past exclusively. I appreciate her effort.”

“You ever told her that?” Geralt wondered.

Emhyr shook his head: “Maybe I should. There are many things that at some point I should share with her; memories of her mother as much as apologies for my own failures. I expect either should come in small doses at first.”

Geralt grumbled in assent, drifting in his thoughts as they lay together in the dark.

“Your thoughts are very loud,” Emhyr eventually prodded.

“Can’t you sleep?” the vintner evaded.

“Babe is awake.” He did not need to explain further. With a soft smile, Geralt extended his hand to his stomach, and found the little bumps in the bump.

“He’s practicing to tread grapes, to become a great vintner one day,” Geralt teased.

Emhyr huffed: “ _Or_ she is treating me as the first obstacle in a grand campaign to conquer new territories.” His voice fell a little, and there was a heavy silence.

“Even with nothing but a foreign body and a borrowed dress, you still managed to conquer my heart.” Geralt whispered.

“Your talent lies with swords and grapes, not waxing poetic nonsense at me,” Emhyr grumbled, but seemed mollified, “and do not assume that I forgot you did not reply to my initial question.”

“I never would dare such a thing, conqueror of my heart,” he called theatrically.

“And?”

Geralt sighed: “And I was thinking about Ciri, and how this – we – are difficult for her. I’m glad she decided to stay until her sibling is born.”

Emhyr tilted his head with a yawn: “Do you think she will have… sisterly feelings?”

“Time will tell.” The yawning was contagious. “Good night, love,” the vintner smiled, giving his spouse a kiss.

“Good night, love.” Emhyr replied, and closed his eyes with a content little smile.

 

~*~

Standing at the shore of the dark lake, Emhyr stared down onto his mirror image. The water was so still that nothing tore at the reflection of a strong jaw, broad shoulders. He still wore his habitual black and red.

 “Miss me?” a mocking voice said over the mirror surface of the pool, which began to curl. Walking over the water, each step sending of circles of little waves, O’Dim gave him a gleaming smile.

“What do you want?” Emhyr whispered coldly, hairs in his neck rising.

“The miracle of life, how are you enjoying it so far?” the demon asked, rubbing his hands together.

The emperor blanched, swallowing heavily, but tried to hide the fear crawling into him like tendrils of ice.

“The experience makes me think I should have been more careful in phrasing my wishes,” Emhyr considered, voice higher than he had intended.

O’Dim nodded enthusiastically: “A wise reflection indeed! But what can I say? A deal is a deal.”

“True. A rather precise delivery, too. Aine has no hair on her feet,” Emhyr commented bitingly.

“I’m glad you appreciate the details. And, if you forgive me, I must compliment you on the wedding dress. You looked ravishing.” O’Dim’s smile turned rather sharp.

“I believe I have paid my part of the deal, is that correct?” Emhyr asked lightly, changing the topic, and to his vague surprise, O’Dim nodded.

“Quite so, you have. Or rather, dear Aine has, just to be precise. But I have not quite, you might agree, fulfilled my end. More time, you wished for, to experience the miracle of life. Not quite over yet, is it?”

The tendrils of ice suddenly surged and exploded in his heart.

“Be gone!” Emhyr yelled, completely and utterly losing his composure. O’Dim’s smile, as he disappeared into thin air, was murderous with glee.

 

Emhyr awoke with a scream. On the night table stood a small hourglass, the sand ever trickling down.

 “Geralt…” Emhyr’s voice broke in terror.

Geralt rolled around, blinking blearily in the early hour of the morning: “What?”

“I need your help,” his spouse whispered.

“Is it the child?” he mumbled, halfway between jumping out of bed and falling back to sleep, when Emhyr’s next words stopped him dead:

“I fear O’Dim is going to kill us.”

 

~*~

 

The small hourglass, which had appeared out of nowhere, sat in the middle of the dining table. Several of their closest friends had stayed around after the wedding, and now they had gathered, waiting to hear the news.

“Thank you all for being here,” Geralt began, white-faced, “because I fear we will need any help we can get.”

Keira, Triss, and Yennefer wore serious faces, and even Philippa dispensed with her usual flippancy. Ciri sat between the sorceresses, across from Regis, Eskel, Zoltan, Dandelion, and Lambert. It was a proud gathering, full of capable people - at least for a plan born in a few morning hours of desperation.

“So what’s going on?” Lambert asked bluntly, “Because yesterday, you were all smiles, and now you look as pale as a spectre.”

“Some of you may have heard before of a being who calls himself O’Dim – the man of glass, or master mirror. He has many names, and makes deals with people in peril, offers them wishes.” The vintner wetted his lips.

“Such entities are known, yes, most commonly to betray those they make a pact with,” Philippa nodded.

“This one is the most dangerous being I have ever encountered,” Geralt went on, to the growing unease of his listeners, “He can manipulate time, and create massive illusions or… worlds one finds oneself in. I once spoke to him while everything around me was frozen – and so has Myrah.”

Gazes flipped to him, and Emhyr steeled himself: “Less than a year ago, I found myself fleeing my home. What I am about to share with you about my past, I ask of you all, must never be repeated. If not for mine, then for Geralt’s sake and the child’s, because it would put them all in danger.”

Dandelion frowned, thoughtfully chewing on his knuckles. Triss blinked in surprise.

“Men who tried to kill me caught me on the road, and were about to end my life, when O’Dim appeared, froze time, and coerced me into a deal. In fear of my life and the lives of others I travelled with, I agreed. But I was sloppy in phrasing my wish, and of course,” he briefly acknowledged Eilhart, “my wish was turned against me.”

Emhyr cleared his throat: “I asked for a companion to be taken to safety, not a hair on her to be harmed, while for myself I asked for more time to enjoy the miracle of life.”

There was a contemplative silence, full of low mutterings and wrinkled foreheads.

“Once the wish was spoken, my consciousness was dragged into my companion’s form, while I watched my own body… be killed. I got away, and for a while I… hoped the deal was done. But last night, I had a terrible vision, and this,” he pointed at the hourglass, “appeared out of nowhere.”

 

“So this is the time you have left,” Regis was the first to speak after a long pause, face filled with empathy. Eskel clasped his hand over his mouth, while Lambert dropped his head. Yennefer had gotten up to draw Geralt into a firm hug.

“Irrespectively of the shock I am sure we are all feeling,” Ciri raised her voice, “we need a plan to protect my family.” Her burning green eyes met Emhyr’s over the table, and he nodded minutely in gratitude.

“So what do we do then?” Zoltan asked, hitting his fist on the table, “How do we get this bastard?”

“The last time, I managed to goad him into a wager – and won. But I doubt he will make it that easy again, not for me in any case.” Geralt leaned himself onto the table, fists clenched and white.

“In any case it seems that brains and magic are more likely to aid us that raw force, especially if he can control time.” Yennefer suggested.

“Brains, more than anything,” Keira agreed, “though there are moments were a ready sword might come in handy.”

 

“The wish,” Regis threw in after a renewed pause, “it seems to stipulate that O’Dim cannot harm you in the body you are currently in – do you all agree?”

Emhyr nodded, narrowing his eyes, as did others.

“So we must assume that O’Dim needs a different way to curtail your time than to simply kill you. Which means that, please apologise my directness, he must harm the child instead, or… shift your body again. You said your former body was murdered?”

“Yes,” Emhyr nodded.

“Which begs the question of the limits of O’Dim’s powers. Can he revive the dead? Could he simply swap you to yet another body? Or could he even create a new shape from nothing?” Regis explained.

“Nothing is created from nothing, even for a magic user, djinn, or other entity. The power needs to come from somewhere,” Philippa injected, “Given that we have, how quickly does this hourglass flow – a week, less, more?”

“I would estimate a month,” Regis said, watching the artefact intently.

“How do you know?” Triss asked, and Regis smiled politely:

“I can see the speed at which the sand falls, and the size of the bulb.”

Triss gave him a dirty glare.

“Also, that is when the child is due,” the vampire added.

“Given that we have some time at least,” Yennefer interrupted, “I suggest those of us who have access to a library should make the best of the next weeks to find anything they can about O’Dim, and what he can – and crucially – cannot do. As for the others…” she stopped.

“We’ll keep an eye on the estate for whatever kind of trouble might come around on more conventional ways,” Lambert decided.

“I will need to borrow Ciri and a witcher to break into the library in Nilfgaard,” Yennefer went on, “They have the best cataloguing system. If I can’t find anything there in time, I can’t find it anywhere. It’s really a pity that Emhyr,“ she suddenly stopped speaking, in the middle of the word, staring at Myrah open-mouthed.

 

“I can take you there,” Ciri said quickly, trying to prevent the silence from stretching.

“And I don’t suppose we would know anyone who would have an idea how to get a pass to that library, and the best researchers at hand?” Dandelion asked lightly, raising an eyebrow at Myrah.

“What am I not getting here?” Eskel asked suddenly, loudly.

“Could you please go on with the plan,” Geralt started, but Emhyr reckoned the cat was out of the bag. His assassination had hardly been a secret, and at least two people present had put together the parts.

“Master Dandelion is right,” he announced, his voice easily carrying through the crowded room, “I will comprise a letter to Professor Eggebracht, who has always taken an interest in complex magical entities and curses. She will support Yennefer in Nilfgaard.”

The sorceress was still staring at Myrah. “Yen,” Geralt said uncomfortably, and she whirled around to him, face dark with speechless accusation.

“Could somebody finally explain what-,” Eskel began a second time.

“My name is Emhyr var Emreis, I am trapped in the body of my concubine Aine, and no matter how much you may personally despise me and wish me ill, I beg you to save my child for Geralt’s sake.” He said it all in one breath, and sat down again. His back hurt. Geralt stood and went to stand behind him, hands on his shoulders.

“It’s the truth,” he said, looking down.

 

“You married the fucking – pardon me – the emperor of Nilfgaard, former emperor anyhow,” Zoltan asked in horrified awe, staring at them, “and he’s a woman and pregnant. So is the wee babe the child of – what was the concubine’s name again?” he frowned, clearly confused. When he received a baleful stare from Keira, the dwarf threw up his arms: “It’s not like Geralt here isn’t known to save a damsel in distress, forgive me, your Majesty, but there’s a damsel-y whiff – that is to say, you are not quite yourself these days…” The dwarf trailed off, staring at the emperor’s bump.

“The child is mine,” Geralt said forcefully, “Ours, more precisely. Emhyr’s and mine.”

“Though it has been conceived in Aine’s body, so it is hers as well, technically, I suppose,” Emhyr added, “and if we are quite done with the genealogy and open mouths, could we get back to the problem at hand?”

“Which is that we need to save my baby brother or sister,” Ciri reminded them all, “and my father as well.”

 

 

 

 


	12. Beneath the Skin

27 days, which meant 648 hours - 38.880 agonising minutes later, only a tiny amount of sand was left in the hourglass. They were running out of time even more quickly than they were running out of ideas, hope, and the energy to stay awake. But they were running out of those, too.

Beyond Corvo Bianco, the residents of Toussaint were getting ready to celebrate Midsummer. Inside the dark of the house, he felt numb. Emhyr lay in his arms, napping, but even in sleep his face was drawn and pale. Protectively, the vintner curled his arms around his spouse and unborn child, aware just how feeble and useless the gesture was.

They had found little. The Nilfgaardian library had yielded a plethora of sources, but even with the secret aid of the local scholar, they had not found much of a pattern in O’Dim’s habits, apart from the basics they already knew. He was old, powerful, and utterly chaotic. Where he trod, mayhem followed. Only a tiny minority of accounts had talked about defeating him, banning him, treating with him. But whatever rules O’Dim made, they changed like the wind. Although he stuck to them. Always.

A tradesman, the being had called itself. The vintner knew his favoured currency. If you can hear me, O’Dim, he thought loudly and clearly, you can have my soul for their well-being. But no tradesman appeared. Instead, a fanfare was heard from the road, together with the clapping of hooves.

“Lieutnant Galvaaren, in the service of the republic, I must speak with the master of the house”, a man bellowed from outside. Slowly, Geralt peeled himself away from his sleeping spouse.

“On what purpose, and whose orders?” Lambert’s voice could be heard, brashly.

“The Senates! Bring out the lord of Corvo Bianco, immediately!”

“I’m here,” the vintner said softly from the door. He must have made a poor appearance, for the lieutenant gazed at him in shock. Then he collected himself.

“I am here on an investigation into the disappearance of a traitor to the republic, one Aine Dermott, last seen south of Beauclair only a day before I encountered you and your maid at the palace. Is that maid of yours present?”

“You must excuse me, sire, but the timing is terrible. My wife is close to giving birth, and she has been unwell in the last days.” Geralt stood firmly in the door. Eskel and Lambert stood firmly beside him. The two dozens of soldiers in black and gold uniforms would not stand long at all if the moment escalated, but solving this problem the hard way would only generate more problems.

“The duchess as given me permission to search the estate,” Galvaaren announced, unrolling a complicated long scroll.

“Just a minute,” Geralt said, and began to read. In the corner of his eye, he saw a lone rider approach on the road in great haste. He would have recognised Palmerin even without the banner. But as quickly as he came into sight, his friend tore the horse around, as disappeared again. Not very suspicious at all.

“The papers are in order, Lieutenant,” the vintner nodded, “Please feel free to search the estate as you please – but I must just ask you to grant my wife her peace, as I said, she is far from well. If you need me, you will find me at her side.” And with that, he returned to the bedroom.

“Myrah,” he shook Emhyr urgently, “we need to hide your face.”

While his spouse was still waking up, he thought to request a sorceress’ aid, but stopped dead. This would be just what O’Dim wanted. Outside he found Ciri instead.

“Quick!” he told her, once their ramshackle plan was conceived.

 

~*~

 

Emhyr felt faint, the moment his daughter teleported him to the … he looked around. A crypt?

“Ciri, Myrah?” Regis concerned face appeared in front of them. As Emhyr’s eyes got used to the dim light, he realised the crypt was quite… cosily made up. An upper gallery even housed a laboratory, large storage spaces for jars and drying herbs, and a substantial book collection.

In that moment the first sharp pain shot through his lower body.

“Gnn,” he moaned, his knees giving in a little as he leaned heavily on Ciri.

“Are you okay?” his daughter asked, face terrified.

“I’m – ow…” he breathed in sharply through his nose.

Regis’ eyes widened: “Ciri, go outside to the stream and fetch water. Boil it in the laboratory. At least two cauldrons full.”

Nodding anxiously, the young woman disappeared.

“Is this… normal?” Emhyr asked the eccentric healer, who gave him a long, careful stare.

Regis frowned slightly: “Nothing about your situation is exactly normal, but I will do my best to get you both through this as healthily as possible. Now, you best move carefully, but as long as you feel steady, do whatever helps with the pains.”

“How many children have you brought into the world so far?” Emhyr asked warily, under the circumstances willing to ignore the casual use of his first name.

“Children? None,” the healer admitted with a naive honestly the emperor would have preferred to forego, “It brings up bad memories from a time I travelled with Geralt, which is why I have avoided such events in the past years… but I am very familiar with the theoretical process and general anatomy.”

 

An hour later, Emhyr was leaning on a sarcophagus, drenched in sweat and trying to breathe down a contraction. Ciri had returned with the water, and was eying her warily from where she was perched on a cask. She had also popped out on Regis’ orders to bring clean sheets and information from Corvo Bianco, the former of which had been spread over a thoroughly scrubbed sarcophagus lid. As long as the blasted dogs of the usurper were searching the vineyard, they were stuck in the – admittedly rather clean – crypt.

“How is Yen doing?” Emhyr asked, trying to distract himself.

“She is lying in bed with a pillow in her underdress, pretending to worry about giving birth, while Geralt is sitting next to her, worried about you – how do you think she is?” Ciri asked incredulously.

“I think I owe her one,” Emhyr gritted his teeth.

“A really big one, too,” Ciri added, giving him a little smile, “How are you?”

“In the most uncomfortable position I ever found myself in,” Emhyr huffed, “And ever includes being a hedgehog most of the day, and kneeling on the ground to witness my own beheading – maybe it is the second most uncomfortable position – oow,” he closed his eyes. Then he felt his water break.

“It’s time,” Regis voice said slowly – too slowly, as if caught in jelly. Emhyr thought he saw something yellow reflect off the water in one of the cauldrons that stood in his line of sight.

“He’s right,” O’Dim said maliciously, just into his ear from behind, and while Emhyr felt icy terror race through his veins, he saw his hands begin to change…

“NO!” there was a flash of green, and Ciri’s angry yell – then both she and O’Dim were gone, and time seemed to slip back to normal speed.

Emhyr howled in pain as the horrible stretching sensation spread from his hands, up his arms, quickly through his whole body.

“No no no …” he begged, hearing his voice fall from Aine’s soprano to the old, familiar bass. Then a shadow slammed him sideways onto the sarcophagus, and a terrible tearing pain ripped through his stomach, before everything went black very quickly. The last thing he saw was the healer’s determined face, sprayed in a fountain of red blood.

 

~*~

 

“Ciri?” Geralt jumped where he stood, finally watching the soldiers leave the estate, “Where is Myrah?”

But Ciri only shook her head hurriedly: “You need to come with me, quickly!”

In dread, the vintner turned towards the hourglass to snatch it off the table. The top half was empty.

“No…” he whispered, watching in horror as he fumbled and the glass fell to the floor and burst. Ciri’s hand closed around his arm and he was dragged into a stream of green light. When they emerged in the crypt, he stumbled. Even with his human senses, the smell of blood was noticeable.

“Myrah?” he called, his eyes still adjusting to the dark.

“He is stable,” Regis voice came from the ceiling, thin and shakily. “But please take them away, he smells great, and the blood… I can’t quite – just take them away!” And with a flourish of leathery wings, the vampire hurtled past and out of the crypt.

“Here,” Ciri had found a torch somewhere, and lit it magically. Taking a step towards the large, cloth-covered sarcophagus in the centre of the crypt, Geralt’s legs almost faltered. Everything was covered in fresh blood. Under the drenched sheets, he found the contours of a human form.

“Emhyr?” he asked fearfully, and in the silence only a thin wail answered him. Turning towards the noise, he made out a bundle of old furs, piled up at the bottom of the sarcophagus. With shaking hands, the vintner ripped the furs away to reveal an infant. The umbilical cord was roughly severed and tied, the new-born still covered in blood and mucus.

“Oh please…” Geralt whispered, cradling his child in his arms, rocking back and forth. Tears blinded him.

“Geralt!” Ciri’s angry voice barely reached his ear. Only when she slapped him did he react. “We need to get them to a healer – or at least back to the house. Or I can take you to Shani in Oxenfurt - that will be best. Geralt! Give me the baby, I’ll take it first.”

Ciri deftly pulled the child from his arms and disappeared in another flash of green.

 

“Him,” Geralt said into the empty crypt, “he’s a boy. Emhyr, we…”

He rose unsteadily to his feet, clenching his fingers around the reddened sheet, before slowly dragging it off the body beneath. Long black hair was revealed, stringy and damp, curling around a strong jaw. The vintner’s gaze flew in disbelief over a broad shoulder and flat chest, coming to rest beside a long, raw, haphazardly stitched gash all the way down from the sternum to the cloth-covered hips. Dragging the sheet off further, Emhyr’s long legs were revealed. The gash ended just above his groin. Carefully, the vintner dropped the cloth back and pulled the still man into his arms, holding his cooling shape close, when a weak gasp of pain reached his ears.

“Emhyr?” he whispered, and in that moment a golden portal opened behind him and several sorceresses tumbled out.

“Please…” he begged, raising his hand in plea to a while-faced Yennefer, who still only wore a very baggy nightshirt.

Helplessly, Geralt watched as she bent over his spouse and began to chant. Philippa and Keira joined her, while Triss conjured some more light. It revealed even more bloodshed.

“He has lost too much blood, but he is stable for now,” Philippa said, “We should get him to a certified healer as soon as possible, but with that face… “

“Oxenfurt is out of question – but we can bring Shani back”, Triss agreed, “And where is Ciri?”

“In Oxenfurt. Baby. Shani.” Geralt mumbled.

Yen shook her head: “Triss, go to Oxenfurt and find Shani and Ciri, and the baby. Bring them back to Corvo Bianco as soon as possible. We will get Emhyr and Geralt there.” The redhead left at once.

“Phil, Keira – can you take Emhyr? Careful about those stitches, they are rather too few… come, Geralt, I know you don’t like port-“

He stepped through the portal wordlessly, eager to remain close to his spouse. Emhyr was being laid down on their bed, and he sat with him, holding onto his clammy hand. A burst of green light from the hall, a vague timeless span later, told him that Ciri had returned.

“Shani is on her way, she’ll be here with Triss once they have packed supplies. Do – do you want to hold him?” He looked up, and saw her cradling the baby to her chest. Nodding numbly, he extended his arms, and she carefully placed the child down into them. “Shani said you have to support the head…” Ciri swallowed, stepping back a little to stand next to Yennefer in the doorway.

“No,” the vintner whispered, seeing her draw back, “we are all a family, are we not?” But he had no hand free to hold onto her.

“Of course we are,” Ciri said softly, squeezing his shoulder, “I’m just going outside to eat something. We’re all right here.” Uncertainly, Geralt nodded.

 

“She took O’Dim to a different world, apparently one really far away,” Yennefer told him, looking to the floor, “We should all be safe now, as far as we will ever be in any case.”

The vintner did not react.


	13. An Eimyr

The third thing he noticed, after the pain and the flatness of his stomach, was how tight the wedding band sat on his finger. The fingertip was already numb. Cursing, he tried to drag the ring off, but it would not go over the knuckle. In a feeble attempt to rise from the bed, he knocked the candle to the floor, and a second later the door burst open and Yennefer appeared. Seeing him wrestle with the ring, Yennefer quickly mumbled a spell, and the metal widened. Breathing fast, he tore it off his finger, kneading the flesh until he felt the feeling come back with an unpleasant prickling.

“How are you?” the sorceress asked once he had calmed, and he looked at her blankly.

“Empty,” he whispered after a moment. He did not know what else to say.

“Would you like to see your child, and Geralt?” Yen offered a tentative smile.

Emhyr stared at the wall, strange, inexplicable feelings running through his head: “They are… fine?”

Yennefer nodded: “Tired, but healthy, yes. We were more worried about you.”

“What happened?” he tried to remember, but everything was fuzzy after …

“Regis had to cut the child from your womb, before you transformed back to your original shape. He managed just in time, or – gods know what may have happened,” the sorceress swallowed.

A child inside a man’s body? Emhyr reckoned that the infant would have perished while it ripped the father’s organs apart. He felt ill. Pulling at the lose shirt he was wearing, he found that his lower abdomen had been wrapped in bandages.

“Shani patched everything back together… more neatly, but Regis saved your life – lives. He was rather upset, but left a note with Marlene that he will come by later. Emhyr?”

“I…” he thought, blinking, “just let me sleep for a bit more.” He closed his eyes, listening as the sorceress left the room. So this was it. The miracle of life. He felt exhausted to the bone.

 

For the remainder of the day, and maybe the next, he slept, and remained bedridden on the healer’s orders. Geralt had been in with the babe, but Emhyr had no energy to contemplate them much. He vegetated in the darkness of the bedchamber, halfway between sleep and wakefulness.

 

“It’s been a week! I’ve had enough of this,” a coarse male voice shocked him from his rest, he did not know the time. A chandelier was put onto the desk, and somebody ripped the blankets of his bed.

“What in the blazing sun…?” he groused, hurrying to pull the loose dress over his exposed thighs. Shani had forbidden him any trousers, and the vintner owned no nightwear he could borrow. The dresses that had been let out to accommodate Myrah’s bump were wide enough to fit the emperor’s physique.

Lambert.

If a man was ever a menace…

“Return my blanket at once,” he ordered the witcher, before he realised how ridiculous that sounded.

“No,” the other simply replied, and threw a bundle of clothes onto the bed, “Shani says you can wear those. And to get your arse out of bed, before Geralt jumps off the next bridge.”

He had not really considered the vintner’s feelings, Emhyr admitted in rising shame.

“Very well,” he huffed, and slowly pushed himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Reaching for the pile of clothes, he found a loose tunic (which seemed to have be remade from the dark indigo dress) and a sash (rather than a belt), underwear, and a pair of very soft leggings. He pulled on the legwear, self-consciously keeping his front away from the witcher’s sight. The bandages had been removed after another bout of magical healing earlier that day, but the cut had scarred very noticeably. It was also rather tender still. Wincing at the attempt to stand, he did not acknowledge the witcher’s help to get himself upright, and drew the soft clothes up to his waist. They were pleasantly flexible and wide. He washed himself as best as he could at the table, then threw on the tunic, which fell to his knees. The sash was tied with great care. Despite all this, he felt woefully unprepared to face the world outside, especially…

“Now get your royal arse out there!” Lambert opened the door. He did not shove him, but his expression told Emhyr he _would have_ , if not for the injury.

 

“Emhyr, it’s good to see you up,” Yennefer remarked very lightly from her seat at the table. He nodded stiffly.

“Where is –“, he had no chance to finish the question, when she pointed _pointedly_ at the door.

“Pool.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, more sincerely than he cared to admit. There was a sense of déjà-vu as he slowly and painstakingly walked outside, around the porch and along the wooden way to the river. Underneath the pine tree, a large swinging bench had been placed onto the wooden platform. The vintner’s form was curled onto it, holding an infant in his arms, both of them fast asleep. Geralt’s face looked thin and worried, even in sleep, Emhyr realised with a pang. Slowly, he seated himself next to his … his husband, and peeked into the bundle of light blankets. A small, wrinkled, stub-nosed face looked back at him, or maybe past him? He smiled.

The change in Geralt’s breath told him the man had awakened. Ruefully, Emhyr caught his gaze, and almost flinched at the relief he saw. He did not know what to say, his mind unexpectedly blank. A small gurgle broke the silence between them, and transfixed Emhyr watched as Geralt shifted the bundle in his arms, and wordlessly offered it to Emhyr. Awkwardly, he let the vintner transfer the child – his child… he stared, cautiously curling his arm around the infant’s back, one hand to stabilise the neck. The habits of a lifetime ago, then with Ciri, were coming back fast.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” he wondered, realising how remiss he had been in his duties to both Geralt and the child.

“Boy – I didn’t even know how to name him, not without you…” the vintner muttered dejectedly.

Emhyr swallowed hard: “What have you been calling him, then?”

To his surprise, Geralt chuckled: “An-eimyr.”

Emhyr winced, unable to stop the grimace from turning into a grin. His son gurgled again, moving against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said lowly, facing Geralt, “I should not have pushed you two away in the last week.”

His spouse smiled warily: “Shani said it can happen, with – with all mothers. And then Lambert said he had enough of it…” Ah, so the vintner had been in on that plan. It occurred to Emhyr that the bench underneath the pine was a carefully orchestrated conversation space. He would need to thank the obnoxious witcher, he realised with trepidation.

In his arm, their boy began to fuss, and the vintner left briefly for the stable. A few minutes later, he returned with an infant’s bottle.

“Princess is sharing,” he grinned, sitting back down. “It’s goat’s milk. Marlene has found a wet nurse among the servants, but she does not currently have enough for both children. So Princess is providing a supplement.”

A magnificent stallion named Roach, and a goat named Princess. Emhyr shook his head.

“Do you want to feed him?” Geralt asked softly, and suddenly he felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes. Shakily, he nodded. The babe took to the bottle hungrily, and the heavy feeling dissipated for a while.

“We still need to pick a final name,” he considered, sharing a long gaze with the vintner. Geralt’s blue eyes were soft, tired, and Emhyr could not deny the shadow of hurt in them, no matter how much the man pretended he understood, that they were fine, that his absence the last days had not mattered. “Do we stick with the favourite?”

 Geralt nodded.

“Helio Vesemir Fergus var Emreis, the miracle of Corvo Bianco?”

Geralt nodded again, slowly leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. And Emhyr froze.

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin it,” he confessed in abjection, trying to cling to the fond feelings, but unable to shake the fears lurking in the back of his mind.

“I promised I won’t let you,” the vintner muttered against his lips, and the emperor yielded.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an eimyr: little hedgehog


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a fun little epilogue. I hoped you liked the story, and if so, please leave a comment!

Elihal frowned as they looked at the order that had been mailed all the way from Toussaint. At first glance, there was nothing surprising about the small set of women’s garments. If anything, they would have commended the customer for their taste. All cuts and fabric descriptions had been sent along, in some cases with material samples. But what inevitably caught Elihal’s attention were the measurements. After a blink or two, a knowing smile blossomed on the tailor’s face, and they set to work on this rather special delivery.

 

 

Dandelion frowned when Elihal delivered a large mystery box to his inn, and asked him to take it with him to Corvo Bianco the next time he went to visit the vintner. The elf made him promise not to open the package, but of course he could not control his impulses, and peeked. Facing Geralt and Emhyr a few weeks later, he wished he had heeded the elf’s request. Banishing the images from his mind had been a herculean task, which he – if he was honest – had failed rather frequently, and not entirely without some… temptation. But really, he should not have…

 

 

Marlene frowned when Master Mhyro began to willingly wash a certain amount of laundry, but wisely did not pry. Unlike some other people, she had respect for the private lives of others. It was no-one’s business what happened on the evenings the wet nurse took the babe to the servant’s quarters, and the masters of the estate had the house to themselves. What went on behind carefully shut doors and shutters was entirely their concern, and under no circumstances should a cook question why oils seemed to disappear from the kitchen in larger quantities these days.

 

 

Geralt frowned, fiddling with the laces that had gotten tangled again, and bridged the time by placing a swarm of butterfly kisses over Emhyr’s bare buttocks. The muscular curves flared beautifully below the seam of the pearl brocade bodice. Once the garment was properly fastened, he let his hands slide over the silk stockings that ended high on his husband’s long legs.

“You’re a sight to behold,” he whispered against his skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses up the smooth fabric and skin, before he caught his mouth, meeting the kohl-lined amber eyes.

 

 

Emhyr frowned, then moaned deeply as he felt the vintner slid into him from behind. On all fours, he curled his hips up to meet the thrusts. Geralt’s hands deftly held onto his cinched waist, caressing him through the fabric. Desperately aroused, he wrapped his own hand around his leaking cock, and gave himself a few sharp pulls until he spilled onto the sheets. Thrown over the edge by the clenching channel around him, his husband collapsed on top of him.

“To the side,” he told the man, bucking him off. Then he sat himself astride his spouse and kissed him languidly.

“What?” he huffed at Geralt’s put-out face, “I don’t want spunk on my special clothes. It’s a horror to wash out.”

The vintner rolled his eyes, and gave Emhyr’s behind a gentle slap.

Emhyr raised an eyebrow suggestively: “Excuse me, darling?”

 

Geralt just smiled knowingly.


End file.
